


country roads, take me home

by poeticaid



Series: Aid-verse [1]
Category: CountryHumans, Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Afterlife, Angst, Are You Afraid of God?, Asexual Character, Backstory, Blind Character, Blow Jobs, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Study, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Christmas Party, Cold War, CountryBalls lore mixed with CountryHumans, Danganronpa AU, Demonic Possession, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Violence, Drunk Sex, Drunken Kissing, Dysfunctional Family, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fear of Death, First Meetings, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Germany is Holy Roman Empire, Homophobia, Hubris, Hurt/Comfort, I Fear Spain More Than I Fear The One Above, I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream, I worldbuild too much, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insomnia, Japanese Occupation, Language Barrier, Language of Flowers, M/M, Mexico and Philippines friendship, Murder, Mutual Pining, Norse Mythology references, Office AU, One Night Stands, Philippines is an asshole and It Shows, Pining, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Recreational Drug Use, Reincarnation, Religion, Resurrection, Self-Harm, Separation of Germany, Seven years war, Shapeshifting, Siblings, Simulation, Slavery, Slow Dancing, Smoking, Soviet x China is WAY better than Soviet x TR, Spain is Afraid of God, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Taiwan is China's older brother, The countries shape shift, Tokyo takes after his parent, Useless Lesbians, Vomiting, World War I, World War II, Worldbuilding, Worship, also Soviet x China is... pretty angsty, fight me, no, the first 16 chapters aren't worth reading though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2020-03-29 17:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 117,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticaid/pseuds/poeticaid
Summary: i'm going to get backlash for this, but i'm trying to reform the fandom despite my disgusting ships by making all countries genderfluid and asexual.





	1. dysphoria (UK & Japan, UK/France)

UK does not like turning to a woman, nor do they like turning to man. He looks at himself in the mirror, as he changes form to a woman, then a man. He does not like changing gender to gender, no matter how much he thinks it is a blessing. She doesn't want to look at her reflection, in case she starts sobbing. If she does, her wife and children will hear her and will see their father in a weakened state, then they will not respect him anymore. France might leave him. With tears in their eyes, they suit up in the suit that they always wear, but this time, Britain hates wearing his beloved suit now.

 

Today was a meeting in the United Nations today, so he has to look his best, even if it means appearing  _masculine,_ or  _feminine_. He combs his hair and smooths it, then goes to the kitchen to cook his children's and wife's breakfast. The first one to come down the stairs was Canada. Canada chooses to be a woman today, as her hair is stringy and messy. Britain sighs as they look at the fine mess.

 

"Please tell my you will wash your hair", Britain says as they serve their daughter her breakfast. Canada smiles.

 

"I will, father, do not worry." There it is again. He used to love being called 'mother', 'father', but over the years he grew tired of it, and he wanted to try something new. Britain then turns off the stove, and distribute plates on the mostly empty table, save for Canada. She sits on a chair beside Canada and starts to eat, as dawn's light shines onto the house, waking everyone up from their slumber.

 

France wakes up, her beautiful face still intact, and hair smooth and silky, as always. She sits right next to Britain, and starts to eat after greeting her husband. The next one up was Australia, followed closely by New Zealand, and finally America, the last one to wake up because he is stubborn. As stubborn as Britain, perhaps.

 

"You all better behave yourselves in the meeting today", Britain says as he pours himself a cup of tea, trying to get his hands to stop shaking.

 

America rolls his eyes. "We know, dad."

 

Britain sighs. "I just wish that everyone could see that you are all angels, and  _not_ the first impression you have made with some of the countries from before."

 

"Sure dad", Canada says, putting maple syrup into her pancakes.

 

"You heard the latest gossip, though?", America interrupts.

 

"We do not gossip in this house", France reprimands America.

 

"Mom, it's a really weird thing. Japan split himself in like, half. You know that culture he has?"

 

"Oh, you mean those peculiar cartoons with cat ears?", New Zealand asks.

 

America snaps his fingers. "Right! Well, he said to me in a message that he can't balance all the political issues and animation stuff so he split himself into two distinct people."

 

"So, he has a sibling now?", France asks.

 

America shrugs. "Apparently."

 

Britain digests this information as he sips on his tea. He remembers a time when he and Japan were close allies,  _friends,_ but it faded away after Japan decided to ally with Germany during World War Two. He sighs, wishing they could be friends again. Oh well. Japan brought this upon himself after two atomic bombs.

 

She and the others start to get ready, and she takes a bath, putting it on a warm water setting, enjoying it until remembering that she didn't want her body to be like this. They were now kneeling on the tub, wiping their eyes as they try to turn off the shower and get a towel. They wrap themselves up and walks through his wardrobe, where he tries to pick something that can go with him, but all he finds are suits and ties and skirts and he didn't like how he was going to wear these in another meeting. They feel... hollow, and empty, as they try and gnaw him to bits and pieces.

 

Britain snaps out of it, and picks a suit, realizing that maybe this one could help him comfort himself. He gathers his family as they now crowd in the car and drive all the way to United Nation's headquarters. Luckily enough, they're all early, and they pile into their seats.

 

"United, it is great to see you!", UK greets UN, and they both shake hands.

 

"Me too, Britain", they say. See, all unions in the world are genderless, meaning they have no gender and their pronouns are they/them. UK wishes that the same could be applied to him, but she still doesn't know why she's so uncomfortable with her own pronouns. She keeps fluctuating from male to female and vise versa, but it never satisfies her.

 

All countries come flooding in, and Britain goes to sit on his respective seat, at the end of the European desk and beside France, and holds her hand. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. The Asian countries were the last to enter, of course, and in comes Japan, in a traditional kimono, holding his briefcase full of documents. He has dark circles in his eyes, something he has had ever since the second world war was resolved. America said that he went mad after he lost, and that he had held his children as he tries to not let them go. Maybe that is why his hands are always shaking, and he wears gloves. His hair is tied up into a messy bun, as he sits down right between China and Philippines.

 

"Alright, we are now here to discuss whatever political issues you all have!", UN says in a cheerful manner, and everyone applauds. "Our first speaker for this hour is Mister Japan." Everyone gives Japan a polite and appropriate round of applause as he takes his documents and puts them on the podium, and clears his throat.

 

"Good morning, everyone", he says in that monotone voice, unfeeling and incomprehensible to what he is feeling behind that face. He generally has a cold look that he  _copied_ from Britain, of course. "Before I continue my speech, I would like to talk about division.  _My_ division."

 

Britain and France look at each other, then back at Japan. Japan is now gripping the sides of his podium, as he tries to look at everyone with a firm but calm expression, meaning no harm. Britain has taught Japan too much about facial expressions.

 

"It was not an easy decision, to split myself in half like that", Japan continues. "But I do not wish to burden myself with handling my political issues and people, bombarding with my need of cultivating entertainment purposes for everyone involved. So I decided to split myself in half; one dealing with my fully developed culture and entertainment, and one strict and politically diverse- me. Though, making two versions of me had consequences, something that I feel will always happen when everyone tries to attempt the impossible." Japan stops for a quick breath, then continues. "My sister has no memory, whatsoever, of-" he flinches, " _past_ events, nor does she have any idea what was going on around her anymore. She, like all countries, is genderfluid. But, it seems that I am not."

 

Britain finds himself confused. What did Japan mean that he is not genderfluid. All countries can take one gender form to another gender form. Did he lose that ability after he split himself?

 

"It seems, that I also split apart my genderfluidity from me entirely, and with that, I cannot fluctuate from gender to gender. My proper pronouns are they/them, something you are all familiar with with the other nations."

 

Whispers flood over the room of what Japan has just said. Every country in the world always look down on their unions, no matter how important they are on keeping world peace. It is because they believe that a genderless country is a curse. But Britain does not think that they are abominations or curses. He feels jealous that they are not withheld in the gender spectrum. Britain sighs as he sees his shaking hands. Her gloves feel hot under her skin, and she looks at France with a smile, and she smiles back.

 

Japan clears his throat, as he arranges his papers. "Anyway, since my announcement is out of the way, I wish you can respect my pronouns. With that said, let us move on to the meeting."

 

Britain only heard bits of the meeting and debates happening because of the thoughts churning in their head. Maybe he can converse with Japan about pronouns, and gender. The only thing that stands in their way is an awkward reunion, but he hopes that they would try and settle their differences aside. After the meeting, America asks to have more time in the place, and Britain happily tells him it is alright to wander around the place.

 

"France?", she asks, taking her wife's hand. France's sweet smile melts her heart, always.

 

"Yes?", she asks in that honey-sweet voice that has Britain melting.

 

"May I talk to Japan?"

 

"What prompted you to speak to him after the second war? I thought you felt betrayed that he has sided with... him." France has the same distaste for the past as Britain does.

 

"I know, but I want our relationship to be like the old days, when we used to be allies trying to not be scared of Russia."

 

France giggles. "I remember the times you were quaking whenever you hear the words 'Russia'." Britain's cheeks are flushed with red, remembering the times she had complained about Russia to France. France touches their shoulder, and kisses them on the cheek. "Of course you can talk to your former friend."

 

Britain smiles at their wife, and they call after Japan, who was gathering all of his documents. They look up, confusion in their eyes, replaced with a guarded expression.

 

"Britain, what a nice surprise", Japan says. Their voice is cold and smooth, his expression heavily stoic and guarded. Their gloved hands makes Britain wonder if Japan carries scars of the war. Their messy bun was undoing itself during the meeting, and most of it are now hair strands blocking their face. "What can I do for you?"

 

"I wish to talk about our relationship with each other, and I wish to improve it", Britain says. It is embarrassing to be face-to-face with a former friend. When they were still friends, and Britain had not lost territories, he was much taller than Japan. Now Japan was inches taller than him.

 

"Well, if you wish to be associated with me again, we shall converse about this", Japan replies. "When do you want to meet up?"

 

"The earliest I will be waiting for you is tomorrow. We can meet up here." Japan nods.

 

"I see then. Farewell."

 

Britain didn't want Japan to go yet, but they know that it is impolite to tell someone you don't want them to leave yet.

 

The next day, Britain drives around UN's building, trying to find Japan. He had one of his semi-formal outfits on, not wanting to look regal for a social event. He's had ten cups of tea last night, so he could not sleep. He wants to open up to France about what he's feeling inside of his body, how he doesn't want to be two different genders. But it seems that his pride is stronger than the chains of love. He finds Japan, who has just arrived from the bus, their eyes stuck on the screen of their phone, circular glasses falling of the bridge of their nose, and their mouth obscured with a mask. Unlike yesterday, they weren't wearing a traditional kimono, rather, the fashion style trending in their area right now. Their hair was tied into a bun, which was slowly falling off. Britain presses the horn on his car, alerting Japan that he is there.

 

They have a silent morning at Italy's restaurant, which doubles as a cafe in the morning due to not having many customers coming and buying pizza at such an early date (well, if they're not America).  They silently sip their coffee (tea, in Britain's case), staring at each other, wondering who will snap and ask how well they are today.

 

"You invited me here to have a conversation about the relations between our countries", Japan speaks up. "Speak up, now, or you are just wasting my time."

 

Britain remembered that attitude. It was  _his._ He used to be so impatient in the twentieth century, that he would comment that a conversation would be a literal waste of time.

 

"Yes, I am here to talk about improving our relations, after we've had our...  _falling out_ ", Britain words their argument before the second world war broke out carefully. "But I also wish to talk about your opinion."

 

Japan looks up from their phone, with raised eyebrows. "Opinion on what?"

 

Britain tries to relax himself as possible, trying hard not to let Japan sense his discomfort by his shaking hands or uncomfortable posture. After all, Japan has always been very observant. "Gender."

 

Japan puts their phone down, fixing his glasses. "Well, my opinion on gender as a whole is debatable. I have been questioning what gender I am satisfied with, since I am neither satisfied with just being male or female. Do not get me wrong, I loved being a genderfluid person, but I want to be strictly one gender, a gender not a male, nor female, nor  _both._ I just wanna be in a gender void, for all my life. And when I finally separated my sister from myself, I finally felt... satisfied with nothing in me. Gender is not a barrier to things you cannot do as an opposite one, they are just there to... exist, inside of you, in my opinion." Japan sips on his coffee. "Why do you ask, UK?"

 

"Well, I've been feeling...  _tired_ , of being a man, or a woman. Because in the end, I don't feel satisfied in being...  _both_. I don't know, as much as everyone thinks that being genderfluid is a blessing, I view it as a curse, because I thought that... that I can change into a gender  _outside_ of male and female. What you said yesterday- I knew that I wanted to be like that. A gender void. Gender neutral."

 

Japan did not say anything, and Britain thought that Japan had recorded their speech and sent it online, but instead, Japan smiles. The dark circles under his eyes seem to brighten, as he smiles softly.

 

"Well, that is quite a philosophical conversation about gender", Japan says. "You wish to be just like me? Like UN? NATO? EU?"

 

Britain nods. "Yes. I feel like you all have no limits."

 

"But genderfluid people have no limits to what they wear, or their rights, Britain."

 

Britain sighs. "I know. I want to change from gender to gender, but it's getting quite tired to be restrained to one gender stereotype when I can be... like  _you._ "

 

Japan nods. "Well, what pronouns do you wish to use, then?"

 

"Oh, nothing much. A simple they/them is simple enough."

 

Japan chuckles, smiling wider, something that Britain had never seen after their falling out. "What is so funny?"

 

"Remember when we were still friends during the early twentieth century?", Japan asks, sipping on another cup of his coffee.

 

UK raises a brow. "Yes, what, does this feel like a deja vu to you or anything?"

 

"Yes, but in reverse. Instead of you giving advice, it is I who gives you one."

 

Britain chuckles as they pour another cup of tea into his cup. "My, how times have changed."

 

Japan sighs, looking at the counter to find Italy cleaning it. "Yes."

 

Britain breathes in and out, feeling confident about their family supporting them after consulting with Japan; they have made plans on trading resources and meeting up in Italy's restaurant whenever they need to talk about their trade relations, or if Britain needs advice. Their gloved hand touches the brass doorknob, and they turn it, to find their family in the living room. America was playing video games with Australia, New Zealand and Canada were watching them play, cheering them on, while their husband, France, was humming and drawing on his sketchpad. Britain clears their throat, and America instinctively pauses the game.

 

"Hi, Dad", America greets. Britain cringes at the word; they would've taken it warmly, but now it seems like a word to... trigger them.

 

Britain nods as they makes their way and place a kiss on France's cheek, who chuckles and kisses them back, but this time, on the lips. They need to say it now, knowing that it will change their family dynamic forever, even if it would make them distance themselves from their own parent.

 

"Remember that I had a meeting with Japan today?", Britain asks cautiously. "Well, other than talking about improving the relations of both our countries, I also talked about what I've been...  _feeling_ about myself, a lot lately."

 

France quirks a brow. "But, we are here, and we would always try and support you, whatever you're going through."

 

Britain sighs. "I know, but... I just feel  _ashamed_ to talk about this issue that has been plaguing me for over a decade, and I've been thinking about how I don't like being  _fluid_."

 

"But Dad", America says, and then again, Britain's hands clench the couch's hand rest. "Being genderfluid is, like, a blessing, or something."

 

Britain sighs. "It used to be, for me. Then the wars happened, then organizations with no gender at all starts to patrol us, and I feel like I do not want being a fluid individual. I wish to be  _void_ of it all."

 

"Like what Japan said yesterday?", Canada asks. "Being gender neutral like the rest of the organizations?"

 

Britain nods. "Yes, basically like that."

 

America scratches his head. "Well, you could have told me. Told  _us_ about what you're going through. But what are we going to call you now? I liked calling you dad or mom."

 

"Don't think I didn't see your hands shaking or your body freezing whenever they call you mom or dad", France says. "And I know you love authority around this house, so you don't want your children to be calling you by your name."

 

"What if we just mix mother and father together?", America speaks up, always the crafty one out of all his siblings. "Like, 'Moda', 'Damo', 'Momda', or something."

 

Britain just shrugs, something they don't really do often. "Well, it is better than 'Mum' or 'Dad', so, I shall take the risks."

 

America chuckles, then hugs Britain, followed by all of their children, and then their partner. Britain smiles and embraces all of them, loving the warmth they share.


	2. America's exes: USSR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> self indulgent.

A huge party is ensuing in the halls of the new building of UN, a brand new organization after the League of Nations. America was quite drunk, and USSR was holding her hips. She was busily talking to her father, UK.

 

"It is quite a relief for this war to end", UK says as he sips on his champagne. "USSR, you can have half of Germany, as a payment for your help in the war."

 

USSR nods, and America laughs.

 

"He is quite good at battles", she says. "I wonder if he is good at kissing as well."

 

"America!", UK reprimands his daughter, who only snorts in laughter. USSR averts his gaze to someone else, particularly France, who has been freed of his chains after the war.

 

"Britain, France looks quite lonely over there", USSR says. "Can you maybe comfort him?"

 

UK looks at the country, and nods. "Of course. I shall see you later. America, please be respectful next time when you talk to someone." He ends the conversation and walks straight to France, who takes him warmly.

 

USSR turns back to America, who has her back turned to him. Her dress was quite tight, and her back exposed, making USSR quite uncomfortable with the way she dresses. She then looks back at him with a dazzling smile, testing him. 

 

"This is quite a party, USSR", America says as she makes her way back to him, with another glass of wine. She offers him a glass. "You want some?"

 

"Thank you, America", USSR says, taking a sip of it. "This party is quite extravagant."

 

"Why thank you. After all, I am the one who funded this party."

 

They talk to each other for the rest of the party, until it was time for them to go back to their original landmasses. America seemed to not want to leave USSR alone, as she puts her arm around the taller country, giggling all the way. USSR sighs and looks at America.

 

"Miss America, it is time for us to part", he says. America's hand travels up to his chin, and they stay like that.

 

"I wish for you to kiss me first", the country replies. USSR was conflicted; they are of different political parties, and America wishes for him to kiss her? She might end up regretting it later. USSR sighs and takes away America's arms away from him, leaving her stumbling.

 

"I am sorry, but you might regret it later", USSR replies. America stares up at him, and smirks, as she pushes him to the direction of her mouth and kisses him. They kiss for a few seconds until America breaks apart and calls for Canada from the building to come pick her up.

 

America sits in front of Canada, giggling as her brother starts to drive away from the venue. She has kissed that handsome country, and even if she will get tons of backlash from her family, it is worth it. Canada sighs as they take a turn to the sea, where they are submerged in the water as they come home to their continent.

 

"T'was a fun night", America says. "How are you, Canada?"

 

"Quite exhausted from the partying, thank you", Canada replies. "I also see that you like that communist. I thought you hate communists."

 

America shrugs, looking at her reflection in the rear view mirror. "He is quite handsome; too bad he is a communist."

 

America stumbles home, feeling quite parched as she knocks on her house's door, and the door opens to reveal her son Washington at the door.

 

"Mother, you are late", he says. "Are you alright?"

 

"Yes dear", America replies, patting his head. "Where is the bathroom again? I feel queasy."

 

Washington helps his mother stumble to the bathroom, where she proceeds to let out all the digested bits of food inside of her. Washington gives her a glass of water to drink, before going to bed. America stumbles to bed, undoing her dress and lying on her bed.


	3. mornings (part one?)

Mornings in The Land of the Rising Sun is quiet, peaceful, as the cars start to drive across the Japan siblings' house. Their house was not modest at all, and it was as big as the buildings in Tokyo. The cities are now bustling with energy, and it was always a noisy morning in their land. Japan wakes up before her sibling does; they were always into inventing and studying to keep their stress and sleep away from them, and Japan, well, she's relaxed and fun; she cares for her sibling, but also does her work without drowning in it.

 

She starts to dress herself in her usual garments; a school uniform with a short skirt, as always in all those anime cliques. She pours water inside the kettle and puts it on the stove. She usually draws while waiting for the tea to boil. Once it does, she turns it off and pours the tea into two cups. She takes small sips as she sketches her next character, until she hears a crash upstairs. After so many years of putting up with her sibling, she never flinches at the sight of him without his medication anymore.

 

She folds her cat ears, her tail swishing back and forth slightly, as she goes to a cupboard and takes out Japan's medication. She takes the elevator to Japan's private floor, somewhere underground. After all, Japan never liked sharing anything with anyone, nor anyone seeing them. It is dark down there, but she's gotten used to it, after decades being their sister and care-taker. They could never take care of themselves.

 

She knows what room they were in. After all, they stay in  _that_ room more than their bedroom. It's almost as if they forget they have a bed. She knocks first, of course, alerting Japan that their sister is here with their medication.

 

"I don't fucking need that."  _Stage two, denial._ This is the cycle of their dynamic throughout mornings; tea, denial, threats, submission and normality. Japan was not going to give up on her brother, no matter what.

 

"You need it to keep your mind stable", she says firmly; she is known by other countries as easy going, but whenever it is morning, her demeanor changes, as if a switch inside of her mind is activated. She grips on Japan's medication, and knocks on the door again. "Just take it, Japan." She waits, and the door opens to reveal her sleep-deprived sibling. Their hair was disheveled, falling off their bun, their glasses making their glare more maddening and fearful, the circles under their eyes making them more threatening. They never wear their gloves inside of their home, so Japan has to look at them in the morning, crisp and burnt; some parts trying to turn to ashes. Japan wondered why she never had them.

 

"I said I don't need it", Japan replies, their voice a low growl as they rub their temples. "I'm fine, Japan."

 

Japan always wondered why her sibling never lets her share the pain he felt during the war, the madness and loss unraveling them but they leave Japan unaffected. It is a curse, to formerly be Imperial Japan, but not have his memories unlike her sibling. Japan offers her sibling the meds, and Japan hits it, sending it sprawling to the floor. Japan sighs, normality ensuing.

 

"I said I don't fucking need those  _things_  to make me stable, because I am as stable as I can be", they say. "Just leave, Anime-san."

 

"No, Japan-sama", Japan says, her tail steadying. "I need you to fucking take your meds."

 

"I am  _not_ taking it", Japan replies. "Take those things and get out or I'll-"

 

"You'll what? Break my technology? Kill me? Kick me out of my home? I've heard your threats a lot of times and it's not going to fucking work, Japan-sama. Not anymore."

 

Japan lets out a low growl, but they know, they always  _knew_  the routine of their mornings, how it was like a merry-go-round but more painful and longer, more than anything else. In the end, they know that their sister always wins, their sister helps them through purgatory and inferno itself; they cannot exist in tranquility without her, yet tranquility can also be painful. They sigh as they take the meds from the ground and lock the door.

 

"I'll be upstairs with your tea", Anime replies, going up the steps without waiting for a reply.

 

_Japan uses they/them, and, for me, Imperial Japan was like a 'phase' for them, meaning they'd still have memories of their old life intact but have a new personality. Japan's sister, Anime or Manga (you can call her either) is genderfluid but preferably a girl. She's basically the embodiment of anime and manga as a whole. She calls Japan 'sama' meaning 'god' because I think that Anime always thought that they were the deity of their whole world, to make things more depressing._

 

Philippines didn't sleep last night due to playing Mobile Legends with his friends all night. He goes over to the balcony and puts a cigarette between his teeth. He would've been getting high by now, but he's been 'fighting' drugs off since twenty-sixteen. He's having trouble sleeping sometimes at night due to not taking his daily and nightly dose of drugs, and the first few months has been him literally  _shaking,_ his hands wanting to touch the packages of drugs, his veins popping out. Good thing his sons were there, mostly Luzon, who was always there to take care of him.

 

He drops the cigarette to the ground, then steps on it, then takes another one between his teeth and lights it on fire as the chaos in the city starts. Philippines is dying, he feels it everyday as more and more corrupt politicians take the thrones undeserving for them and idiots letting them trample all over them. He sighs, remembering that he's alive for his children.

 

He taps on the hand rest of the balcony, knowing that it'll be a hundred foot drop from his building. He can see it now; his body, angles in awkward directions, blood underneath him, and his face has a smile on it. One cannot smile when they die, and Phil is afraid of death, no matter how much he fantasizes it.

 

_Philippines is always kinda nice, but he's very passive-aggressive as well. He insults people and has no regard to how serious the gravity of the situation is, and would always reply with something disrespectful. He smokes and does drugs a lot, which is a problem here in the Philippines as well. Also very addicted to Mobile Legends (a game)._

 

Sweden was always the one who wakes up to drink himself to sleep. As much as he loves Thailand, he feels like he's taken him for granted. They met in when Sweden was taking a vacation, trying to move on from his first love, Aaland, who was now in a relationship with Finland. Sweden had no ill will against Finland; after all, it was his decision to stay out of the war and let Norway be invaded by providing a passageway to Germany, and he didn't help Finland against USSR, despite winning. If things had gone different, would he still be with Aaland, or would she still be with Finland?

 

He sighs, as he opens his fridge and tries to find a bottle of gin. Sweden is always the one who buys bottles of gin, until it piles up. He finds none, despite having bought a lot the past week. Sweden swears under his breath, wondering where the bottles have gone.

 

"I got rid of them." Thailand's voice echoes throughout the empty kitchen, and Sweden jumps at the voice, he turns around to find his husband, who had a stern expression.

 

"Why did you get rid of them?", Sweden asks. "They're-"

 

"I know what they are, Sweden", Thailand sighs. "I'm just so worried about you- you keep drinking yourself to sleep and I don't like it." He approaches Sweden and takes his hands, linking them with his. He had a pleading look on his eyes, something Sweden cannot resist on disobeying or saying no to. "I love you, and even if you still don't believe how I could, look at the times we spent together. We met and married in two-thousand six, and we're still progressing, even to this day."

 

Sweden sighs, smiling warmly. "Fine, I'll try and stop drinking."

 

_Sweden met Thailand in 2006 as he was having a vacation in Asia after being rejected by Åaland many times due to not participating against the war against Finland and Russia. Sweden and Thailand married after some months, and Sweden stays in Thailand's country, but visits his whenever he doesn't feel awkward around Finland and Åaland._

 

Spain drinks from her water bottle, panting and sweating as she starts to run again. She looks at the blue water and its waves, the golden sand below him, and the sun shining on the horizon, its rays touching her in a moderate temperature. She was wearing headphones, humming the song stuck in her head. She loves mornings like these, when the sun has not risen completely and the waves are calm and serene. It keeps her mind off of the schisms of her country.

 

She then heard her phone ring, and she sighs, thinking it was her brother, Portugal, calling her again. Though they were on better terms ever since they joined the EU, she and he still annoy each other a lot. To her surprise, it was Andorra calling her. She picks it up, still jogging across the beach.

 

"Hey, Andorra", Spain greets, smiling and her face reddening. "What's up?"

 

"Where are you?", Andorra asks. "Portugal said you weren't home, and I'm worried."

 

Spain sighs. "I'm on my daily run, remember?"

 

A silence ensues at the other end, followed by a click of tongue from Andorra. "Oh. Are your beaches really pretty to make you run?"

 

Spain laughs. "You already know what they look like."

 

A chuckle from the other side. "Yeah, they're as beautiful as you."

 

_Spain and Portugal moved on from their differences after joining the EU, but they usually have the sibling banter. Spain has a crush on Andorra, but she never really acts up on it._

 

UK looks at the clock, sipping on their tea, their gloved hand sweating as it makes contact with the cup's hot surface. They love the clock's 'tik tok' sounds, remembering the cadence of its sounds before it was turned to a repulsive application for little children. They mostly wake up late in the morning, but sometimes they wake up earlier than expected.

 

They have already set up the table, looking more like a buffet than a dining table, despite having delivered food because they didn't want to strain their fingers in the morning. The aroma of food did not concern his hunger, since their manners refrain from being scandalized by America's table manners. They sip on his tea, remembering the times when they were a large-scale empire, one of the largest in the world. They look at the family picture; one of the most recent ones.

 

They still remember the scars of the past, embedded deep inside them as their leg bounces; said leg had the familiar scars of World War Two, something they didn't wish to relive despite having suffered the least of it. Their dear France has many scars, and they grip the handle of their cup, remembering the state their wife was in before they freed her.

 

They are snapped out of their musings as someone presses a chaste kiss on their cheek, and they find France sitting beside them with a cup of tea in her hands. She was smiling brightly, and all the coldness Britain feels inside of themselves start to diminish quickly. Because everyone they love is still alive, and it is still sunshine in their house.

 

_From my previous chapter, UK is now nonbinary and their pronouns are they/them; I always though that both UK and France were pining for each other and during France getting blitzkreig, she and UK shared a kiss. UK also regrets their past relations with their sons, and they like tea, of course._

 

Germany doesn't normally wake up during the morning, because he's usually  _up all night_ doing his work. After all, he's a country, and the consequences of sleep deprivation don't really apply to countries. Sometimes Germany would be at wit's end, his mind trying to process the seemingly inaudible noises around him, sometimes he collapses once he's too stressed to do anything, or he drops out cold in his bed after his body couldn't handle not sleeping anymore, and gets himself plagued by nightmares from his past.  _Fuck_ the past.

 

He stumbles into the kitchen, his eyes closed. It's not like he needs his eyes for anything, after all, he is blind. Every thing is dark. He finally senses the fridge and opens it, trying to see through his hands as he searches for the bottle of whiskey he keeps at the back of the fridge. He reads through his hands every single label (France taught him how to read Braille, god bless her) and finds the bottle of whiskey and places it on the kitchen counter. Then Germany, deciding that whiskey isn't a proper breakfast, starts to look for his cigarette box.

 

When he finally finds it, he lights up one stick and sticks one between his teeth, and he grabs a glass and pours whiskey onto it. Germany goes to the balcony of his room, trying to look as if he's enjoying the view, despite being blind and only seeing darkness wherever he goes. If his mind feels creative, it would warp his eyes into thinking that he can  _see_ again, but in the end, his mind fills him with wars and battles and everything happening in the past, remembering that his past had eyes and the present doesn't.

 

"Germany?", a voice calls from below, and he didn't need to think twice before recognizing that it was Poland.

 

"Yes?", Germany asks, ever so cool and composed.

 

"Would you mind if I make you breakfast?"

 

Germany sputters, and he realizes that the cigarette between his teeth has died out so he drops it onto the floor and drains his whiskey. "Well, sure, wait a minute, I'll get you in."

 

After stumbling down the stairs and placing the glass on the counter, he opens the door to sense a presence there, already familiar. Poland, without a word, already accustomed to Germany's invite, goes straight to the kitchen, telling Germany to sit on the couch and wait. Germany takes out his ashtray and lights up another cigarette, and hears Poland turning the stove on. He sighs as he delves deeper into his mind again, despite Poland telling him that leaving Germany  _thinking_ for a second is bad news.

 

"Hey, Germany, breakfast is ready", Poland says. Germany gets up from the couch, putting the ashtray and the dead cigarette away. Still sleepy, he stumbles onto the dining room and sits on a chair. Poland has already served out his breakfast, and Germany takes a fork and takes a piece of it, soft, and puts it on his mouth, moderate heat, and has syrup. They were pancakes, and Germany loved them.

 

As they eat, Germany can feel his energy coming back to him. "Poland, I have a question to ask."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Why do you keep helping me despite what I  _did_ to you in the past?"

 

Poland sighs, and unexpectedly, he puts his hands on Germany's, and he jumps at the warm touch. He's always felt cold, either because of the cold winds or his temperature, or that he did not really expect physical contact from another person.

 

"Listen, Germany, still feeling guilty about the past won't make you move on to the future."

 

_Germany is basically blind, due to the separation of West and East Germany, or probably because I thought of this during midnight, since I liked the scenario._

 


	4. America' exes: Martial Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: contains non-con kissing at the end of the chapter.

 

America's calloused hands touch Japan's for one last time, as a couple. Then they break off, as if they altered space time continuity by breaking off their relationship,  _temporarily._ They started their relationship in nineteen fifty-five, and it halts after fifteen years of joy, happiness, peace and tranquility. America had to go back to his country to monitor his people as they approach the climax of the Cold War. He and Japan promised to continue their relationship later in the year.

 

Life without someone waking up next to America, cooking for him, loving him with all his might and heart. America is back in the times he was alone, where his photos and portraits of his old loves were the only things keeping him company. His abandonment issues and his isolation problems start clawing onto him, trying to make him hit rock bottom and go back to those dark times after his relationship with Mexico comes to an abrupt end.

 

America starts to feed himself with only coffee and cigarettes, trying to look and feel okay as he takes on his casual clothes as he goes to hang out with his friends and brothers or his children. He looks back at Asia, wanting to be with Japan again, but they both know they need some time to themselves to feel what it's like to feel  _alone_ again.

 

Yeah, they'll be back to their relationship after a few more years. America just has to be a little more patient. But patience is his weakest point, his hands trembling like an earthquake striking him as he looks at photos he had taken of Japan, and he cries at the thought that what if Japan had fallen out of love from him? How could America possibly move on; Japan and his relationship was the sweetest out of all of America's relationships- displacing his and Philippines' relationship decades ago- despite killing Japan's favorite sons Hiroshima and Nagasaki and wounding him in the process.

 

One morning, America finally decides to eat something other than smoking cigarettes and snorting drugs all day (thanks to Canada, of course), and he eats solemnly, looking at a portrait of him and Mexico before they had a war with each other. His relationships always end in a bad note, as if he wasn't destined to be them despite their comforting and affectionate words. Like, one day, America and his possible significant other are lovers, and then the next day, with no explanation, they hate each other. During his war with Mexico, pain and agony creeps inside of him, as the one he was fighting with was his wife, and they were at war with each other due to territories. Then Philippines, who had hated him in the first time they met, then USSR. How many more will become his enemy? How many will turn to strangers after they break up?

 

Today is nineteen seventy-two, and he has a meeting with all the countries in the United Nations. That means that he can see Japan again, and America is looking forward to that. America, smiling, puts on the suit his parent gave him, and brushes his hair, trying to look like a renowned business man. Despite having a rowdy behavior, America was also a successful business man, just like his parent before him.

 

He and Canada, always sharing vehicles, enter the room where most of the countries are seated. America spots Japan, who was wearing a traditional kimono, and he smiles, his insides warming, the freezing and brutal winter inside of him fading, giving him the fluttering and warm feeling of spring, as Japan smiles back at him, his smile is as warm as the sun's rays soothing over him.

 

America sits in his respective seat, waiting for other countries to come through the door he had came in the first place. Suddenly, the chatter inside of the room was replaced with a cold and eerie silence, like someone had flipped the noise switch off. America, thoroughly confused at the sudden lack of charisma and noise, looks at the open door, and sees someone he thought he would never see again after liberating him from Imperial Japan.

 

Philippines... was technically  _not_ Philippines. His ever soft eyes, full of life and wonder was replaced by colder, harder eyes, narrowed as he looks across the room. He had a soldier's posture, standing straight, tall, and proud. He had a soldier's uniform on, and had a lot of honor badges. His shoes make loud noises as he approaches his seat, and America notices that he was wearing gloves. He sits down between Indonesia and Malaysia, who are trying to get far away from him as possible, despite the closed space around them.

 

United Nations decided that the silence was unbearable, as he clears his throat. "All right, we should get into the topic of the meeting in the first place."

 

America scribbles down notes into his notebook, still prompting to write in cursive because as much as he hates formality, he was used to the curves of the letters, the uselessness of its effort, and how pretty it would look once it is in calligraphy. America blames Britain for making him used to write cursive, but to be honest, he can't help but like the way cursive makes him feel  _sophisticated._

 

After the meeting, America gathers his things, wanting to talk to Japan, but a cold touch to his shoulder makes him think that he has to pleases someone first before going after Japan. He looks up to find Philippines, a cold glare trying to look through America's sunglasses. America gulps. He has never been intimidated by another country other than USSR, much less than a developing country like Philippines. All he sees under him was cruelty, as his badges clack against the uniform. His soldier's cap obscures his hair, but America's pretty sure he's had a soldier's cut.

 

"How can I help you, Philippines?", America asks, trying to hide the feeling that yes, he is intimidated by the cold presence of Philippines sneaking up on him in a tight corner.

 

Philippines clicks his tongue, as he sits right next to America, but still, his perfect posture remains, his gloved hands clasping over each other, a thin smile across his face.

 

"My name is not Philippines", he says in a handsome voice, harder than steel. "I am his son- Martial Law."

 

America raises a brow, remembering that Philippines had told him about his fourth and final son, Martial Law, who was going to inherit his military force once he's old enough. But why was he here?

 

"Why are you in your father's place then, Martial?", America asks, curiosity brewing his insides as he face Martial. He looks so tall, even by sitting standards, and America can feel chills crawling over his back. Martial is  _bad news,_ his mind supplies, and America has to get out of here so he could attach himself to Japan again, always feeling as if he's in danger around Martial.

 

Martial sighs, as he pulls onto his gloves despite still being in place. "Oh, nothing really- my father needs... a  _vacation,_ and I offered to supervise his country while he is away on his vacation destination. Of course, my brothers are all older than me and have more rights to rule the country than me, but... they trust me to do it."

 

America nods. "And do you have something to ask of me, then? After all, you are the one who approached me."

 

Martial nods. "Oh, yes. I wish to talk to you about our  _relations._ "

 

America frowns, and a silence consumes the room. The tense atmosphere was gnawing at America from the inside. He did not want to be in this conversation in the first place. Why had he entertained Martial Law despite the mixed signals the country has been giving off?

 

"Um, what do you mean by our relations?", America asks. Martial smiles, as he stands and looms closer to America, giving off a vibe that America has felt when he was still a young colony, back in the days;  _danger._

 

And before he could process anything, the cold gloves clasp onto America's face and pull him forwards, right into Martial's cold lips. America tries to claw his way out of the kiss, but Martial was stronger than him, gripping onto his face like he was a toy, and America tries to break the kiss but it seems that he wasn't strong enough to overcome Martial Law.


	5. the three of them

It was a nice day today, in Britain's opinion. They were enjoying a nice cup of tea they had brewed just for them, with the right taste and temperature, and their favorite tea cup- their wife, France's wedding anniversary gift for them. It was a very nice day.  
  
Then France walks onto Britain's seven o'clock tea at the gardens, not with a smile, but with a frown, a red thin line traced across her lips, carrying a roll of paper in one hand. Britain smiles at her, wanting to comfort whatever is on her mind as she walks towards Britain and kisses them on the cheek. She takes a seat on the chair across from Britain.  
  
"What is wrong?", Britain asks, pouring France a cup of tea. "Here, drink some of it before telling me your problem."  
  
France sighs, taking the cup of tea and sipping on it, before unrolling the piece of paper to reveal that it was a page from the newspaper. "When I woke up, I had many people and my siblings messaging me about something urgent. I thought it was the Notre Dame catching fire again, but it's something reputation-ruining, Britain."  
  
Britain knows that it's something very serious once France starts to call them by their name and not the nicknames she gave them. France gives them the page of the newspaper, and Britain reads the article with shaking hands. They almost drop their cup of tea on the pavement as they crumple the page and throw it at one of the apple trees in the garden.  
  
"Bollocks", Britain swears under their breath, the headline burned through his mind.  
  
 **United Kingdom caught cheating on their wife, France, with Germany**  
  
Right with a picture of Britain kissing Germany and flirting with him at the restaurant where they held their date. It was not true. If the journalist had seen France with Germany, then she would be accused of cheating. If Germany, France, and Britain acting affectionately with each other was seen by anyone, then it'd be classified as an 'affectionate moment between friends'. They were quite thankful that they had not seen France with Germany- after all, France was the more sensitive to the insults that will be hurled her way.  
  
Britain, France, and Germany had difficult history with each other, dating back to the Middle Ages, back in the days when they were show-offs trying to take away the most of the long dead Rome's land. France and Britain fought the most, and they started to yearn the whole world, to rule it. So they started to voyage and find more land, and they did. There was a time when Britain was taller than France, since they had more territory than France back in the age of colonialism. They especially felt cheated by France as she helped their son, America, gain independence. But something changed during the seventeenth century, while America was having a civil war.  
  
They started getting closer, they and France, and they became close friends in the eighteen-eightees. Prussia had also changed his name to Germany, but was still an empire despite losing territory. In World War One, they were quite inseparable, going to the battlefield linking arms as they face their opponents, smirking as they load their guns and rifles and started shooting at the enemy. Maybe that was when Britain started to 'pine' for France. They had also noticed, at that time, that they were shorter than France now, much to their embarassment, but now they treat it as a laughter material.  
  
During World War Two, that was when their feelings went to some sort of climax, wanting to tell the other but did not want to due to their friendship on the line. But as France started to lose, as France and Britain started to be surrounded by Germany's soldiers, France tries to reason with Britain, trying to make them leave France to fend for herself, but Britain, of course, had refused. Then much to their shock, France had locked lips with theirs, desperate but passionate at the same time, and as she breaks the kiss, Britain had not much time to admire France as she knocks them out with the back of her gun and pushes the boat away from her shore.  
  
Their guilt had stayed, as they were aided by both Canada and America, their sons, before he goes back to war with a bitter and angry vengeance against Germany. Britain wanted him dead at the time, and they will stop at nothing until they get what they want. When they won the war, they had blinded and divided Germany, giving the east to USSR and the west to them, America, and France. Those were quite the bitter days, especially during the Cold War, when their son was too busy with his 'diplomatic war' and leaves West Germany to Britain and France's hands. Somehow, Germany had made them trust him again, and they let him join NATO along with the other countries. But still, there was an amount of hostility in the air, even when they had some sort of steady friendship with Germany, they still feel paranoid that he might become who he was again in his later life. Then Germany joins the UN, then both Germanies, West and East, were united, then USSR and America announces the end of the Cold War, then USSR falls apart and America announces that he was in a relationship with Germany- in that order.  
  
When America was with Germany, Britain felt something inside of them, like America and Germany shouldn't be together and that they should split apart. They also noticed that France had also acted coldly whenever Germany and America were both in the same room, and Britain had wondered why. After America and Germany's break-up, Britain and France had immediately brightened when they heard the news, and invited Germany over for some tea. Things escalated, and the three of them were cuddled up on the couch watching movies. Britain had felt conflicted- they like Germany, but they also like France. One day, Britain breaks in front of France and tells her their feelings, and France had told them that she feels the same thing too. They both invited Germany to their house and discussed that they wish to court Germany. Germany, though shocked and surprised, agreed.  
  
Now their secret was found out by almost everyone in the world, and Britain only blamed themselves for not being careful. They could only imagine what Germany's going through. They hear a knock on the door, and France tells Britain that she'll get it. Britain is left with their thoughts swimming around their head, and suddenly the peaceful garden wasn't peaceful at all, more like a mocking to what was going on.  
  
"Your father is here", they hear France's distant voice say. "We wish to talk about the situation at hand."  
  
"But Mom", they hear someone else's voice- America. "How can you be so calm about this whole mess? MomDad cheated on you."  
  
Britain sighs, pouring themselves a cup of tea to prepare for seven angry children trying to question them. France walks in, followed by their children- America, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, India, and Papua New Guinea, all with a serious and stern expression on their faces.  
  
"Dadmom, please tell us why you cheated on Mom", Australia says, voice firm but gentle. France sighs, sitting down next to Britain, holding their hand, noticing that it was shaking uncontrollably.  
  
Britain breathes in and out, preparing for another backlash as they tell their children the truth. "I was not cheating on your beloved mother."  
  
America opens his mouth, wanting to retort, but France holds up a hand, meaning to keep quiet. Britain looks at the cup on their hand, the dark swirling liquid inside of it making him feel relaxed.  
  
"We are both in a relationship with Germany", Britain says, in a calm but loud voice.  
  
Their children look at one another, genuine surprise on their face. Their eyes are wide, as they start to ask Britain questions.  
  
"You two are in a polyamory with Germany?", Canada asks.  
  
"How long?", New Zealand demands, shaking her fists.  
  
"How did you three even decide this?", India asks, crossing his arms.  
  
"What the hell?", the rest of their children say, and that is probably one of the questions that might be asked once France and Britain break it to everyone about the status of their relationship. America sighs, scratching his head sheepishly.  
  
"Sorry about thinking you were cheating, momdad", America says. Britain laughs.  
  
"Do not worry, it is a now-common consensus around your age."  
  
"MomDad... you were born three hundred years ago."  
  
Britain chuckles. "Hush now, son."  
  
America then makes an 'o' shape with his mouth, as if he had just realized something. "So we're going to call Germany 'dad' now? That's really awkward, considering he was my ex."  
  
Britain and France laugh, their laughter brightening both their ruined day. The sun seemed to shine again on their family. There's another knock on the door, and France looks up, the smile on her face gone instantly. Britain wishes that they could see her smile one more time.  
  
"It's Spain", France says, sighing. "She, Portugal and Italy are here to try and take me home."  
  
Britain sighs, as they follow France towards the door, and she opens it, revealing that yes, it is Spain, Portugal and Italy, all with furious expressions on their faces. Britain steps forward, wanting to reason with them.  
  
"I can explain-", Britain starts, but was cut off by Spain scoffing.  
  
"You can't explain cheating on my sister", she says, hands on her hips. "We're hear to take her away."  
  
France steps forward, a frown spread across her face. "It is a misunderstanding. Please let us explain my spouse's actions."  
  
Britain takes their phone put of their pocket, wanting to contact Germany about telling others their big secret. They decided they want to invite Germany over as well.  
  
 **< To Germany: Germany, dear, I know you wish to be cooped up in your house after this massive exposure. But I wish to tell my family about you- in another way.>  
  
<From Germany: I will be on my way, Brit. I'm going to try and keep a low profile as I go to your house.>**  
  
"Come and sit at the living room first", France says, and Britain notices she was also holding her phone. "Germany will be arriving any minute and we will make an announcement to all of you. Italy, I do hope that you will be recording our conversation."  
  
Italy, on impulse, takes out a recorder. Britain decides to brew all of their children and guests tea, because, in his opinion, tea calms people's nerves down. They prepare one for Germany, when he finally comes into their humble abode. Usually, the house is empty save for the star-crossed lovers, but now, it is quite packed that Britain can feel themselves suffocating through the mass. France holds their hand, and they hold it firmly, not wanting to let go of her as they both navigate through the mass crowd of the house. Then the door opens, and both Britain and France's moods brighten, as they race towards the door, hands still held, and find Germany, wearing a dark coat and gloves. He smiles as he sees them.  
  
"Hello", he says. "Is it time?"  
  
Britain and France look at each other, then both kiss Germany's cheeks at the same time. Thus, their warmth was complete again, and they are inseparable.  
  
That is, until a cough from behind them separates the three. America was there, standing awkwardly, shuffling his feet around.  
  
"Germany", he greets, waving a hand.  
  
Germany nods in greeting. "Guten tag, America."  
  
Britain holds one of Germany's hands, and France with another. They both give the other supportive smiles, as if the sun was shining on their faces, as if today was a beautiful day.  
  
"Let us tell everyone of this, then", France says, as they both walk to the living room, hand-in-hand.  
  
"Are you fucking serious?", Spain asks, wide-eyed. "You three are a threeway?"  
  
France raises a brow. "Why? Is it a bad thing?"  
  
Spain shakes her head, laughing a bit as she tilts her head and sips on her cup of tea. "Just surprised you haven't told us sooner." She turns to both Britain and Germany. "Sorry about this whole inconvenience."  
  
Germany shakes his head, smiling. "No, it is fine. I just wish to be a part of this family."  
  
"Well, you are now", Britain says, going down on one knee and taking out a plain box. Germany alreafy knows where this is going, but he chooses this moment to act all surprise at the way Britain would propose. France was watching on the sidelines, smiling, all teary-eyed. "Will you be a part of me and France's family?"  
  
Germany's smile grows a bit wider, as he also goes down on one knee and plants a kiss on Britains forehead. "I would be honored to be a part of your family."  
  
France squeals, toppling herself over both Germany and Britain, and they both embraced and kissed each other, all pure bliss and ignorant to the other people who are witnessing their affection.  
  
"Does that mean we'll call Germany 'Dad' now?", America whispers, leaning onto his other siblings.  
  
Canada shudders. "Please don't make Mom and Momda do that."  
  
A few days later, after Italy gives the news company updated news about Germany, France and Britain's relationship, their next headline was written like this:  
  
 **Britain, France and Germany- a Happy Couple**


	6. bad romance

Texas hides from his mother, Mexico, praying to God that his father, America, would come back from his work earlier than expected. They had adopted Texas into their family, with loving arms, but soon Mexico's warm smile and arms are replaced with a look of fury, her arms not anymore holding onto Texas, but rather a wooden spoon she uses to hit them. America remains ignorant to their situation, but sometimes would get into fights with his mother, threatening to take her territory if she keeps hurting their children.  
  
Texas had always hated it when his parents started fighting, the shouting and high-pitched screaming hurting his ears, and more importantly, his heart. There was a time that they had loved each other, stared affectionately towards each other's eyes, but it seems that those days are over.  
  
The front door opens, and Texas sighs from relief, because his father is home. He comes out of his hiding place and races towards the front door, and sees his father- well, mother- America removing her coat and putting it on the coat rack.  
  
"Mama!", Texas says excitedly, jumping up and down as America carries him, perching him on top of her shoulder.  
  
"You're quite heavy now", America says, laughing, her laugh like the angels above.  
  
Heels clack and Texas' smile is replaced with a frown, knowing that his other mother was here to take his happy moment away and replace it with her own. Mexico was wearing one of her extravagant dresses, a rose pinned on her hair. She had a warm smile on her face, but it did not hide her wrinkles and the cruelty behind her eyes.  
  
"America, dear", she says in a young and rich voice, charming yet cold at the same time. "You are home."  
  
America's smile wavers, but she still keeps it intact, letting Texas down, much to his dismay. "Hello, Mexico. I have something to talk to you about." America's smile is gone now, replaced with a thin line across her face, and Mexico's smile also fades, replaced with a frown.  
  
"And what is it we're talking about?", Mexico asks, crossing her arms. In Texas' opinion, Mexico should stop frowning or glaring so much- after all, it's the reason why she had wrinkles, despite knowing how to manipulate her appearance.  
  
America looks at Texas, and he knows what it already means; that he has to run towards his bedroom with his siblings, and hide as his parents fight again. He nods, obediently, and he runs as fast as he can to the room, hoping that he wouldn't have to hear what they say.  
  
After Texas leaves the scene, America clenches her fists, her emotionless face now full of fury and rage. She sighs; she needs to get her message through Mexico's thick head, that she wants to split.  
  
"I filed a divorce", America says, reaching inside her briefcase, to show Mexico the document. Mexico's face was ridden with horror.  
  
"You- you can't do this to me", Mexico stammers, walking towards her wife, the sounds of her heels echoing through the hallway. "Who'd take care of the children? You can't possibly take care of them due to how busy you are!"  
  
America glares at Mexico, her eyes narrowed. "The states can take care of themselves; besides, you don't even know how to raise a child."  
  
"I love them!"  
  
"No, you don't. You only love your own territory. Well, I'm here to take it, Mexico."  
  
Mexico raises one of her hands, formed to a fist, wanting to knock her own wife out, but America stands her ground and tackles Mexico as she tries to land a blow on her. Things get ugly, as she and Mexico try to bite each other, pull each other's hair and hit each other with all their might, until they're exhausted. America's thoughts run across her mind, looking at her first love, the one whom she had married out of love, one that had drained years ago. America was sorry that it had come to this, but at the same time, she was not.  
  
As Mexico lays on the ground, panting and trying to catch her breath, America stands shakily, looking at Mexico with an unidentifiable rage in her eyes.  
  
"I'll see you in court."  
  


* * *

  
  
Philippines is quite a beautiful country; no wonder why Spain had felt some connection to him in the first place. When the two were both fighting for the country's independence, America had seen many of his various sources, and minerals, and the beautiful landscapes and sceneries all around him. America had made a decision- he wants to have the country all for himself.  
  
America knows it's easy, tracking down the country to even the deepest parts of the forest; after all, they had fought in these various ecosystems, emerging victorious against the Spaniards. They were happy, them together, but now Philippines' warm eyes towards America was replaced with a cold anger, as he aims his gun towards America, attempting to shoot him in the end, but the other had dodged it in the right time.  
  
The natives that had submitted to America had told him that Philippines and his soldiers were at the forest, planning their next attack on them, and he goes forth by himself, knowing that his soldiers cannot handle the wilderness without breaks, but he can. America finally spots Philippines' camp, his shoulders busy as usual trying to map out the entire area.  
  
America wants to kill them all, but that would enrage Philippines even more and hate him more. So he goes around the camp, trying to find the tent Philippines was in and he finds it. Philippines was looking at a map, a quill on his mouth. He was wearing that gnarly barong, and America wants Philippines to wear a suit and not those native suits they always wore. America opens the tent, walking in as if he owns the place, because he will own the whole place.  
  
"You know, Philip, you should start wearing suits and not whatever you're wearing right now." Philippines jumps as he hears America, and he looks at him, but not moving an inch backwards.  
  
"This is my country's heritage", he says, fixing his barong, and America realizes it was quite translucent, showing off Philippines' tattoos and muscles, and America sweats a bit. "You do not have a say in it."  
  
America scoffs. "You Filipinos are quite nationalist, are you not? Mabini in the prison talked back to one of his wardens by writing the entire Florante and Laura from memory."  
  
Philiplines smiles a bit. "Mabini is quite a clever bastard- always knowing how to talk back in another way."  
  
America laughs, approaching Philippines cautiously, and as he is near the other country, Philippines pulls put a gun- America wants to scoff, the gun too outdated and rusty to do any damage to him other than puncturing his coat.  
  
"I will shoot you", Philippines spits. "Don't come near me."  
  
"I will win, whether you like it or not", America says with a smug smile. "And you will be mine."  
  
Philippines' hostile look is replaced by a sad one, as if recalling their memories together as it sews another one that will be embedded deep into his mind. "I trusted you, America. Then you treat me like a goddamn price and paid to have me. You're just like Spain. Putang ina mo."  
  
And America reevaluates his life decisions, knowing that he will remember this forever and ever, for eternity.  
  


* * *

  
  
America fixes her hair, as she applies her make up on her face. She was going to another party as USSR's fiancè; he had proposed to her just a month ago, and she is quite happy with her life right now, knowing that she has found 'the one' in her life. There would be nothing separating her and her love from each other, even Britain's denial of their wedding would not stop them. After all, love is love.  
  
America finishes her eye shadow, now applying red lipstick onto her lips, when she feels warm hands on her hips, and she squeals in surprise, looking at the mirror to find USSR embracing her, her body meeting with his.  
  
"How are you doing, love?", USSR asks, burying his face on America's shoulders, kissing her shoulder blades, making America laugh in happiness.  
  
"I am fine", she says, looking back at the mirror to apply her lipstick, the face in her reflection quite fair in complexion. USSR kisses America's cheek, embracing her even tighter. "I'm almost done."  
  
USSR nods, letting go of America, much to her dismay, and maybe to his as well. She finishes applying her lipstick and immediately gives USSR a big kiss on the cheek, despite knowing that USSR's flag color will hide the mark of her lipstick. USSR laughs, a deep one, just as deep as his voice.  
  
"You do know the color of my flag will hide the mark, do you?", he asks.  
  
"Of course I do", America says, twirling, her dress fluttering behind her. "I was being an idiot- again."  
  
USSR sighs, his hands on her hips as he looks down at her. America is embarassed about her height, despite being one of the larfest countries in the world, she looks like a dwarf once compared to USSR.  
  
"But you're my idiot", USSR says, kissing the top of America's head, and she smiles.  
  
"I know."  
  


* * *

  
  
America hears the kettle whistle, and, not wanting to disturb Japan's kanji writing, he runs over to it and turns it off, getting two of the teabags and two teacups, as he pours hot water over them, steam coming out of the boiling water and he dips the teabags onto their respective cups. He rubs his hands, and returns to Japan, who was finished with his kanji writing, much to his disappointment.  
  
America looks at the piece of paper with Japan's writing; he had also taken the liberty to draw blooming flowers and cherry blossoms. Japan's language is quite hard for America to understand, especially when he writes his language. America looks at Japan's arms, fresh from the atomic bombings. He flinches at them, still guilty of what he had done to Japan's children and his own mental health.  
  
"What does it say?", America asks, pointing at the kanji.  
  
"Oh", Japan says, reading the kanji. "It says 'My love, America'."  
  
America's face reddens, as he gives Japan a cup of tea, and he watches Japan drink. He has never really get the appeal of drinking tea, even annoying his father about how tea was just flavored water. The flavor of tea is also quite mediocre; not too tasty, not that bad to his tastebuds. It was just the same, of course. Japan's trembling hands raise the cup of tea again to drink, then puts it back down, replacing it with a pen and paper. Japan was wearing a kimono, despite the warm weather, but maybe it was because of Japan's desire to respond to his traditions again.  
  
"I love you too", America says, holding one of his hands, his arms rough under America's skin, and he flinches ever so slightly. Japan's arms are quite charred, as if burnt then cooled upon. His fingers were mangled, and it was all rough underneath his skin.  
  
Japan smiles, giving America a kiss on the cheek. "I know you do."  
  
America holds Japan's hand, still rough and cold against his. He kisses it lightly, not caring if it still had some nuclear touch onto it, because goddamn it, he was so sorry. He wasn't when he did it, he wasn't when he witnessed Japan finally breaking and snapping in front of him, but now he does.  
  
Maybe loving someone you used to hate is quite painful.  
  


* * *

  
  
America fixes her skirt, holding a tray in one of her hands as she walks up to Martial Law's office, her heels echoing on the marble tiles. She looks at the glasses, trying to look at her reflection, to see if there was something wrong- her hair was tied up onto a very neat bun, her lipstick dark and red just like blood, her pencil cap skirt tight against her waist and she fidgets against it, hating the way it makes her feel restrained. She was wearing translucent stocking, complete with high heels that can make her feel tall, and not small against her lover. She checks to see if her make up hides any of her bruises, to see if her gloves extend all the way to her arms despite wearing low sleeves. She releases a breath as she walks around these halls, carrying Martial's breakfast.  
  
Finally, she spots his office and knocks on it. A gruff voice tells her to come in, and she does right away, not wanting to get hit due to not being there a second early. She bows at Martial, who was checking his documents. He smiles at America warmly, but America only trembles in her place.  
  
"Sit, dear", he says, gesturing to a chair beside him. America nods, sitting right next to Martial, as he takes the tray from her hands and kisses her on the cheek. "I must say, you are getting better and better at cooking."  
  
America nods. "Thank you, Martial." She puts her hands together, creating a warmth in the cold room, still shivering. She wants to go back to her country and continue the Cols War with USSR again, not trusting her children to do a fine job at trying to keep everything cool and at bay.  
  
After Martial is finshed with his meal, he kisses America once again, and she tries hard not to flinch due to how surprising and out of nowhere it was.  
  
"As a gratitude for your meal, I will give you a day off", Martial says, and America's world brightens. "You may leave the country now."  
  
America smiles, bowing at her lover as a thank you, as she leaves the place, skipping and humming to herself, out of this hell for a day. It was better than being berated for her cooking, or being hit because of a minor issue. She wishes that she could go back to a time when she had not let Martial set sighs on her during that meeting with the UN.  
  


* * *

  
  
America removes his coat and puts it on a coat rack, hearing the tapping of the keyboard, knowing that Germany was already home when he hears that sound. He smiles, fixing his shades as he walks towards Germany's office, his lover's office flooded with a sea of documents and paper. America sighs as he dodges everything that is under him, until he reaches Germany, who was listening to what his laptop was telling him.  
  
America, knowing how much Germany hates being surprised, taps his shoulder lightly, and Germany turns around with a smile on his face, fixing his glasses.  
  
"America", he says brightly. "You are early."  
  
America laughs, kissing his lover. "Yo see you more, you know."  
  
Germany scoffs. "You rarely even go to work, America. Why do you think my office is flooded with mail and letters?"  
  
America scratches his head sheepishly, a soft smile crossing over his face. "Er, sorry."  
  
Germany sighs. "I know that you wish to explore your country's youth and culture, but I wish you can also put your work as a top priority."  
  
America sighs, kissing Germany again, but this time, on the lips. "I promise I'll work again tomorrow."  
  
Germany raises an eyebrow. "I hope you do get back to work."  
  


* * *

  
  
America was the first to land the first punch, his opponent knocked out from below him. He wipes the blood away from his chin, and spits blood out. Pain floods his body from every where, mixing his pain with anger, looking at the bleachers, to the audience above him. He sees China smile at him, and he wants to punch China until that smug smirk is replaced with fear.  
  
America wins this round, and he is granted an hour break, and he goes inside the bathroom, spitting out blood and wrapping bandages on his knuckles, their hue becoming a purple one. His eye was also not faring well, and he wishes that he had brought medicine for his eye before China decides to force him to fight to live.  
  
"That was quite a performance out there." Speak of the devil. China was wearing her traditional Chinese clothes, making her appearance much more mesmerizing and irresitible to ones eyes. She has a phone on her hand, closed. She was smirking, and how America hates that smirk. He wants to get rid of it. "If you win the next round, I'll have to take you to the next one next week."  
  
"So is this how you entertain youself?", America asks, his lips formed to a snarl.  
  
China shrugs, her smile seemingly widening. "Well, not really. I just wish to see if you can hold your own."  
  
"I can hold my own, you bitch."  
  


* * *

  
  
America and Russia were just enjoying a cold winter, looking at the clouds as snowflakes fall from them. They were cuddled up together, warm smiles across their faces, holding a cup of hot chocolate. America leans onto Russia, and the taller country embraces him.  
  
Maybe this is the happily ever after America had yearned after all these years- just looking at winter with his friend.


	7. couples

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize that the chapters before this is double-spaced lmao

~~~~Japan hates everyone. They hate humans, they hate their land, they basically hate _everything_ that has to do with the entire world, and that includes hating  _themselves._ They wake up every morning, knowing that something is going to go wrong, and it does, but not the way they expect it. They cling onto the hope that maybe, just  _maybe,_ their arms would heal, despite it having been decades after the Second World War ended and it still looks like dark stems trying to take over his entire body. America apologizes for the inconvenience, but it won't  _revive_ Japan's sons that they have hugged before they were turned to ashes right in front of him.

Anime was making their dinner while Japan was in cooped up in their lab, studying and improving prototypes before dinner. Their hands are aching, but they pay no mind to it. After all, they're done with holding onto the past with their hands that would turn to ashes at any moment. Japan sighs as they take their gloves off after another hard and long day. They retie their hair into a much more sturdier bun, as they take the elevator and tell their A.I to take them up to the first floor.

Just in time too, as someone is also there, waiting behind the glass doors despite knowing that they could shatter it any second now. When Japan sees him, their heart starts to lift up, and he lets a tiny loose smile go from their lips as they push a button to open the front door. In comes China, holding an over-decorated box that had a little bow on top of him.

Japan hates everything, but not China.  _Not China._

Well, they used to, and Japan is pretty sure that China has still not forgiven him for the Unit Seven-Three-One experiments, but it seems that they're both distracted by the veil of love, measuring out all of Japan's past mistakes and dumping them out onto the garbage disposal until they break apart, like this relationship never happened in the first place. Sometimes Japan would wonder if that was how their relationship would end; no happy ending, back to the old times where they would try and one-up each other.

Japan didn't want that kind of relationship again, remembering how lonely they would be without someone beside him.

"Hey", China greets, giving Japan a huge smile, something that Japan can never do. "I brought you something."

Japan shakes their head, sighing fondly. "It's obvious, since it's wrapped in front of me like a birthday present."

China chuckles, placing the box on a table near Japan's entrance door, as he kisses Japan lightly on the lips. "You want to go look at the sunset?"

Japan rolls their eyes again. "You know I hate sunsets."

"I hate them, too."

Japan tells their A.I to take them to the top floor of their building, and they and China just sit on the cold hard glass rooftop as they try and insult each other on the way to the top. Their relationship wasn't based on kisses and affection, it was based on how much someone would insult another in a minute. It's called love for both China and Japan, perhaps. There, they sit, watching the disgusting sun set into the disgusting horizon.

China raises his hand with faux-disgust (though maybe it is real distaste for the sunset), facing the sunset. "The orange is so disgustingly horrible that it makes my eyes bleed."

Japan lets out a small laugh, leaning onto China. "I love it when you hate everything."

China smiles, and kisses them on the cheek. "I don't hate you."

Japan gives off a smile wider than the one they had given China in the entrance hall. "I don't hate you either."

They kiss in a cliche manner, one that you might see in the movies, having dates as the sun sinks below the horizon, waiting to rise up to meet everyone with another day again.

* * *

 

Philippines takes out another cigarette and a roll full of weed, putting them together, so he could get high and get his lungs to cough out remnants of his ashes. Philippines also takes out a bottle of wine from the fridge,  _also_ wanting to get drunk. He's a fucking mess, but what the hell's new? His people would go around polluting his nation again, and there was nothing Philippines and his sons could do. Philippines had half a mind letting Martial Law out and rampaging across the streets, but his other children must have caught onto his plan and scolded him for it.

Philippines looks at the wall, wanting to punch it with all his mind, pent-up rage and anger inside of him as his hands closed into fists, and all he feels is pain as he punches the wall, making it crack. He sighs, tears coming up from his eyes, and he wipes them away. He was  _done_ with tears. Philippines hears a knock on the door, and he already knows who it is. He reminds himself to stop punching walls that are connected to South Korea's apartment, because that means he's going to have a visit from him himself.

Philippines sighs as he walks towards the door and opens it, to find South Korea, on the other side, a worried expression on his face. Philippines sighs, knowing what South was going to talk about this time.

"I know what you're going to talk to me about", Philippines says, pinching the bridge of the place where his nose is supposed to be. "I'm fine, South. You don't need to check up on me."

South Korea puts a hand on his hips, sighing exasperatedly. "You're being too hard on yourself, Phil. When I first saw you, you were so cheerful and sweet to everyone."

Philipines hates that excuse, using his first impression as a way to personify him despite not knowing a single detail about him. He hates that- no wonder he had been colonized and forced into relationships with. He was a fucking asshole- not as cruel like other nations, yet not as nice as other countries as well. Which was why he had admired South Korea; he was quite nice and patient to him, never giving up on him.

"Well, I'm more than just a fucking happy-go-lucky country, South", Philippines says, approaching South Korea in a menacing way, using his height in full advantage, thanking himself that his territory was larger than South's. "I'm actually a country, with problems. With goddamn problems, South. Don't pretend that I'm just a 'ball of sunshine' because I'm more than that."

South Korea sighs. "I know, Philippines. But I just want you to find happiness in whatever you're dealing with right now."

"The best of us can find happiness in misery."

* * *

 

America cleans his sunglasses, not wanting to leave a single spec of dirt on it as he arrives at Russia's doorstep holding a picnic basket. He wants Russia to feel like he is loved by someone, and as Russia's boyfriend, that responsibility falls onto America. He knocks on the door, waiting for a response. Russia then opens it, his sullen face turning upside down to a wobbly smile, as he sways back and forth.

America sighs. "You were drinking, aren't you?"

Russia giggles, something that he would never do unless he's really blackout drunk. "Still am until you arrived." America sighs again as he comes into Russia's home, which reeked of alcohol. He finds a stash of empty bottles at the foot of a wooden stool, and America knows that he has to help Russia clean the whole place up after.

"Right. We were going to have a picnic until I saw that your living room is a mess."

Russia scoffs, crossing his arms. "Y'know that you're also a messy piece 'f shit, right?"

America rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but at least I clean up after myself."

"No you don't", Russia answers back, but helps America pick up the empty bottles of whiskey and vodka, and the dirty shirts and shorts that he had all over the place despite being drunk and swaying from left to right. After a few minutes, the bottles were outside, and Russia's clothes were at their proper place in the laundry basket. America exhales, sitting on Russia's couch, still hodling the picnic basket.

"What's with the box?", Russia asks, sitting beside him.

"We were supposed to have a picnic together- just the two of us at the park."

Russia smiled warmly, still in his drunken state, and he leans down and kisses America's forehead. "We can still have a picnic- but not that the park. I hate going to the park."

"Oh yeah? Where do you want to have the picnic?"

It was a warm day today, much to America's delight as he puts a mat down on the concrete floor, and setting his and Russia's food on it. Russia was sitting on the ledge, his long legs dangling, and America feels that he needs to watch him, since Russia is quite suicidal and known to conceal his feelings and wearing a mask.

"Your roof top has the best view of everything", Russia says, looking down below. "Your garden is really nice- do you take care of the flowers by yourself, because I can hardly see you having time to be passionate about flowers."

America laughs. "Fuck you and join me on the picnic mat."


	8. and the empires speak, as God forges their fates from above

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains child abuse. Please skip this chapter if you do not wish to read it.

Britain simply wants to rule the world, but there are multiple opponents in his way, particularly France. That woman has always been the bane of his plans, trying to stop him from taking someone's territory by claiming it as her own, conquering it. She is quite a military master, and Britain is simply quite jealous of her militia. She had eyes of a hawk, trying to find land faster than him.  
  
Britain walks towards the halls, his gloved hands tracing the walls of pattern, searching for one of his sons to order him around. He yearns to feel them _choke_ underneath his arms, them anticipating and waiting for the next hit, and he hits them, hard in the face and with all his might. It is a must, so his sons and daughters could be set in the right direction, onto the right path of justice. So that they will not rebel against him.  
  
He finds America's room, a small little door, reminding Britain of how _small_ their son is, and how big Britain is against him. He hears him crying, and that enrages him- after all, he hates the sound of sobbing and the tears coming from someone's eyes, always assuming that it was some type of weakness.  
  
Without a single hesitation, he opens a door with a slam, and it echoes throughout the hall. America squeals in fright, the noise of his shackles music to Britain's ears. It reminds him that America is his _slave_ , rather than being a son. There is no familial love directed at America, and Britain is pretty sure that America does not see him as a father. Not like Britain cared of what his children thought of him, as long as he has their lands.  
  
"I heard you crying from the outside", Britain says, emotionless. America sniffles, making him angrier.  
  
"I-I'm sorry", America stutters, moving away from Britain, but he steps closer at the lump that is his colony. No such thing as a son to his eyes. After all, he had never desired children, unlike France who had colonialized lands for the illusion that they are her children. "I won't do it again-"  
  
"I have lost count to the many times I have caught you crying", Britain says, leaning closer to America, and the smaller one cowers, trying to get away from him, but is surrounded by the walls behind him. "I keep on telling you that only cowards cry, and you still keep on weeping your little heart out." Britain finds America's chain, then yanks on it, causing America to yelp in pain. "I have just gotten back from a meeting and you are already getting on my nerves, _British_ _America_."  
  
Britain absolutely _loved_ that name, knowing that America is his territory, and no one else's. America hides underneath his tattered clothes, and Britain smiles smugly at the non-hesitant submission. America will never be able to get away from him, will always be carved as Britain's territory, as a _colony_ , something that will last forever.

* * *

 

Spain touches his mijo's shoulder, New Spain, introducing him to everyone at his party. He can sense New Spain's discomfort at being with other people, but he shrugs it off; after all, he needs to learn how to socialize with other people. Unless his son wishes to be met with the whip, then he must do as he says.  
  
Spain knows that nothing lasts forever, that one day New Spain will rebel against him, and his love, Philippines, will do the same thing to him. He wants to decide who will be his kindred spirit, and who will crush him under his palms as a sense of karma for what he had done to them. He wishes to be the one in charge of his story and his colonies' story lines as well; to create a different plot other than the ones God had designed for them all.  
  
He can now just imagine, God sitting on his throne, playing with clay versions of him and the others, forging newer lands and colonies to rebel against their fathers- their masters. He can see God reshaping and remodelling Spain himself, until he can feel himself getting smaller and smaller, as if his whole life after his empire has greatly diminished, a single spec in a world full of independent and massive souls. He can feel himself flinch, hoping that that is not what God wants; after all, he had been his faithful follower for many years, but he can still see God, in all his glory, smashing his clay version apart until he is no longer relevant, because _fuck it,_ this is God's world and he is just a participant, nothing else.  
  
Spain wants all of his children- and Philippines - to be one with him, to have the same religion and beliefs as him, as he had trashed all of their little polytheistic beliefs away, forgotten forever. He can feel his world getting smaller, as his colonies' world get larger, trying to grasp information from outside of Spain's influence.  
  
"Do not feel discomfort, New Spain", Spain whispers on New Spain's ear. "Go and socialize with the other countries but be back by twenty minutes or you _will_ get the whip."  
  
New Spain flinches at those words, and he scampers away, trying to talk to as many people as they can get, while looking at the grandfather clock every second. Spain smirks, as he goes onto his merry way, talking and showing off to his brother Portugal on how many colonies he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter one this time, just to practice my way of describing things.


	9. oh the irony, i wish to laugh but it seems that it is replaced by tears flowing down my face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I find it funny that Spain, the one who forced religion down our throats, is now one of the most LGBT friendly places in the world while we, who used to have diverse people, are one of the least accepting people in the world. There is a fine line between tolerance and acception.

The first time Philippines sees Spain was during a UN meeting, looking like his very best, despite losing territory and just coming up to Philippines' neck. Spain was quite handsome himself; looking like a matador in search of bulls he can fight with, wearing a sombrero that covers almost his face, a proud smirk across his face as he sits next to Portugal during the meeting, rubbing his palms together.  
  
Philippines had found himself staring at Spain, his former colonizer for three hundred years, not because he is fascinated with Spain's looks, but unlike America and Japan, they had not talked to each other and try to set their differences aside. Philippines has no idea how to even greet Spain in a cheerful manner, preferring just waving emotionlessly at him, feeling as if Spain does not deserve his courtesy.  
  
The second time, they had actually had eye contact with each other, Spain's amber eyes staring intensely at Philippines' brown eyes, his eyes fiery and fuelled with fascination, something that Philippines is uncomfortable with, as America makes them sit on the same room, all _alone_. Philippines should have brought something to defend himself with, to catch Spain off-guard. Spain was wearing a leather jacket and a crucifix around his neck, staring at Philippines, never breaking the breakable glass of silence all around him.  
  
Philippines' head, however, is not silent, remembering the three centuries he had spent under Spain, being treated as an inferior person, forcing him to be someone he isn't, crushing him with a stone blocks of how he's _better_ , how he is the _god_ that will save Philippines from his olden beliefs, and how he only wanted Philippines for his minerals and gold; how Spain forced him to be his meek little wife, always doing as he says.  
  
There was no such thing as gender inferiority in the olden days, back then when Philippines was rich in culture and had his own religion, worshipping the old gods, but after Spain, he had ruined it all.  
  
Philippines did not say anything during the one hour interval, and once the time is up, he immediately leaves, not even batting an eye at America as he asks what happened, and he pushes his way out of the building, not wanting to have another staring contest with Spain. If there was a god -maybe there is, in this world- then what if their fates are interchangeable, what if Spain was colonized and he can finally _feel_ what it was like for all his other colonies.  
  
The third time they met was at one of America's parties. Philippines was wearing his barong, watching America from the backstage as the country announces that the band, ASEAN's - _Philippines_ ' band- will be playing this night as a starter for their party. Everyone applauds, and Philippines can feel himself smiling as he and his friends emerge from behind the curtains and start the first song, loving the way the crowd cheers for them. To see them below him, it makes Philippines feel _higher_.  
  
After their preformance, Spain enters their room with a backstage pass, along with Italy and Portugal, wanting to take pictures of them and the ASEAN's. Of course, Philippines agrees to have some pictures taken, before he goes to talk to other people during the party. But once Spain puts an arm around Philippines, he is bombarded with more painful memories surrounding them both. His lungs seemed to be rejecting the air Philippines inhales, as if it had locked itself inside his ribs while his heart starts to beat faster every single moment, and he feels like he was about to fall from his grace if both he and Spain keep their positions like that any longer.  
  
That was the first time Spain had touched him after the colonial days, and Philippines runs towards the bathroom, barely concealing his vomit as he chokes on it on the toilet. He is _better_ than this. He has moved on from his time as both America and Japan's colony, but why not Spain? He is not as brutal as Japan, yet he is not as easy going as America. What is so wrong about Spain that Philippines got to the point where he felt like he could _never_ forgive the other?  
  
Then, as if God answers all his prayers and questions, he changes the channel one day to find that same-sex marriage is now legal in Spain. He merely spits out his drink as he watches Spain, who was smirking at the camera, with a microphone pointed at him, speak about how and why he legalized same sex marriage.  
  
"I just felt that we need to accept people's preferences", Spain says. "Even if I am a Catholic nation, maybe God actually loves all kinds of people, be it nonbinary people, or gay people."  
  
Philippines is quite enraged at the prospect of gay marriage being legal; it is against God, against the rules of the Bible, and that was what Spain taught him, as he forced his religion down on Philippines' throat, replacing his polytheistic and much more accepting themes with a religion that had _ruined_ his people's way of living, and their mentality. No wonder why Philippines is still a country, full of homophobic people running it. The atmosphere from before, where he had represented gender equality, was replaced by something else. He can just feel Spain shackling him again, back to the past where it began, and he can hear Spain laughing about the irony his life had become.  
  
With an unknown fury, Philiplines throws the remote towards the T.V, and the glass shatters, the multi-colored screen now pitch black.  
  
Philippines can also feel himself laughing about how _ironic_ all this is; Spain, his first colonizer, the one who forced religion down Philippines' throat, who used to have a diverse mythology circling diverse gods and goddesses, is now replaced with a less accepting type of person, while Spain gives gays rights.  
  
Maybe that was why Philippines is hesitaint to forgive Spain.


	10. domestic families

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i sincerely gave up on America's part, my apologies.

America was busily playing games on his phone, having no care in the world until someone decides to turn the internet off. Frustrated, and, with a shout, America throws his phone to a nearby wall- almost breaking it in the process. New Zealand looks up from where she was reading, a glare on her face. She just wanted some time to read but her brothers make that difficult for her sometimes. She sighs, flipping a page on her book, watching in interest as America goes batshit crazy over a switched off internet.  
  
"Son!", Britain says, coming down the stairs, along with France, smiling brightly. "You do not need to fret; I was the one who switched the internet's server off."  
  
America glares at his parent. "Moda, why the hell would you do that?"  
  
Britain claps his hands, still smiling brightly. "I wish to have quality family time with... well, my family."  
  
America's glare softens, as he furrows his brows, crossing his arms. "Dad, we're all inseparable in this house."  
  
"Yes, but I wish to do this often and daily with you four! Now- call your siblings, for we will start our family time by going to a carnival!"  
  
New Zealand obediently shuts her book, running off to find her brothers, probably somewhere in the garden shed blasting Thomas the Tank Engine's theme song and getting high with weed they stole from Jamaica. She wants to go to the carnival, and she wants to go now. She finds the garden shed, and, listening through the doors, _yes_ , they are blasting the Thomas the Tank Engine theme song, and it is quite loud. She opens the door, to find her brothers, Canada and Australia, unsurprisingly high. Canada gives her an ear-splitting grin, as he offers her a blunt.  
  
"Yo, Zealand, you found us", Canada says. "Here's your price."  
  
New Zealand wants to take the roll and start smoking and getting high with her brothers, but she's pretty sure that her parents would not like that behavior, especially if she comes stumbling home red in the eyes and high off her mind.  
  
"Stop playing that goddamn song all over again", she says, walking over to the speakers and turning it off, much to Canada and Australia's displeasure.  
  
"Damn it, New Zealand!", Australia says, taking out another roll of weed. "It was at its hundredth round until you paused it!"  
  
New Zealand groans exasperatedly, taking away the packages of weed from both her brothers' hands, knowing that they were too slow to stop her.  
  
"We're going somewhere, and you guys are already high off the clouds, goddamn it", she exclaims, putting the rolls and cigarette boxes and packages of weed in her jacket. "I'll give you these once we're going home."  
  
Canada and Australia groans, struggling to stand on their own two feet as they follow New Zealand back to their house.  
  
"What in the blazes happened to you two?", Britain exclaims once Canada and Australia rush back into the house.  
  
"Smoked weed", America says in the simplest way possible, his eyes back on focusing on his mobile game.  
  
_And I thought Philippines was the most addicted to it,_ New Zealand says, rolling her eyes.  
  
"All right then, we all look decent enough to go to a street fair", France says, turning the keys 'round and 'round her finger. "I'll drive."  
  
At least they had fun playing the carnival's games, taking turns to see who can hit the most pins, and America gloating that he won't scream at the roller coasters, which was a humiliating defeat for him as he was knocked out cold on the first ride, and when he came to, he is laughed at by his family. France had even taken a photo of America screaming, and they posted it on their social media platforms, much to the country's dismay. Canada and Australia seemed to also be having the time of their lives, as they has spotted Netherlands and asked for weed in exchange of their money; they snuck off to more hidden places to snort and get high. New Zealand, meanwhile, was trying out every single ride in the fair, even running out of money to the point she had to ask her mother for money (never ask America, he's quite stingy with his stash) and retry all the rides with loads of stamina. France and Britain bet on each other's chores as they try to win the most fair games as possible, remembering the way they used to compete and treat everything as a competition like back in the old days. In the end, France wins, and Britain has to do both hers and their chores for the whole week.

* * *

 

  
"Tokyo, what the absolute fuck are you doing?!", Osaka exclaims in horror, as he walks in on Tokyo, stilk wearing his work clothes and mask, busily tearing apart one of Osaka's prized car models.  
  
"Just trying to innovate the model cars", Tokyo says. "And because I'm bored."  
  
Osaka pulls Tokyo away to what used to be his prized car models, now broken apart, looking like it would look ugly once it's brought back together in one piece. Osaka hates it whenever Tokyo goes to his 'working spree'; instead of working his ass off of projects and documents and files their parent, Japan, keeps handing out to him, he does _this_. It was like he was procrastinating work with work, just at his own will.  
  
"Why don't you fucking work on the documents Japan gave you then?!", Osaka shouts at Tokyo, absolutely done with his shit. "Not ruin other people's whole life by breaking their own work apart, goddamn it!"  
  
"Oh, fuck off", Tokyo replies, glaring bitterly at Osaka. "You never even used this piece of shit-"  
  
"Piece of shit?!", Osaka shouts, his voice an octave higher, as their brothers and sisters crowd around them. From his peripheral vision, he finds his aunt, Anime, typing on her phone, her ears folded. She was probably contacting Japan, but he lets her. After all, Japan never does anything other than work all day and night; that's where Tokyo got it from. "I spent years constructing my priceless car model! It's one of my favorites! Then you go and fucking destroy it!"  
  
Tokyo opens his mouth, but a shout from the hallways alert them and their siblings.  
  
"That is enough!" Japan emerges from one of the glass elevators, a furious expression on his face, something that rarely happens anymore due to Japan being so down to earth and apathetic about everything around them. "Tokyo, Osaka, follow me to my room, this instant." The next sentence was softer, but it gives out the sense of authority that was not desired to be disobeyed. And so Tokyo and Osaka, looking at each other with fear in their eyes, follow Japan to their room. Japan removes their glasses and puts it on the desk, rubbing their forehead, while glaring at their two sons.  
  
"What was the fight all about?", Japan asks in a calmer voice this time.  
  
"Tokyo destroyed my life's work", Osaka says immediately, earning a glare from Tokyo. "He was disassembling one of my prized car models; which I have worked hard to build."  
  
Japan sighs, looking at Tokyo with a frown. "Your obsession on dismantling objects are... _worsening_ , son."  
  
Tokyo sighs, waving his hands around before putting it on his forehead, lookong down. "I just really want something to help me relieve my stress, Japan. The only thing I do all day is be what everyone expects I am; a working capital. Working capital of the world. Japan, I'm _more_ than just a city full of workaholics, I'm my own city, Japan."  
  
Japan sighs, looking at them with what was supposed to be a sad frown; they were never good at emotions ever since the second world war ended, only preferring the company of machinery over their own children. "You could've told me sooner. I would've given you abandoned or non-desirable cars, Tokyo." He turns to Osaka. "And do you _wish_ to rebuild your prized car model?"  
  
Osaka nods. Even if he had spent too much time fixing and going by the method trial and error to finally achieve one of his proudest achievements, he wishes to do it again. After all, everything became boring as he had assembled all of what Japan and his older siblings gifted to him, and now he's searching for more things to do. "Yeah, I feel bored after building them all."  
  
Japan nods. "Alright. This will only take me a week to do, so be patient, you two."  
  
Tokyo and Osaka frown. Knowing Japan, they wouldn't eat nor sleep until they get the job done. Which was why Japan was almost always on the verge of collapsing after they've finished one of their works.  
  
"Japan", Tokyo starts, fumbling for words to use. "We're patient enough. Don't overwork yourself to death, alright?"  
  
"Yeah, we can both wait for more than a week- a few months, maybe?"  
  
"Nonsense", Japan replies. "I wish to give you satisfaction by giving you what you want as soon as possible."  
  
"Japan, your health should be your top priority", Tokyo says firmly. "We're going to be fine, as long as _you're_ fine."  
  
Japan smiles at them, something they rarely see. They were just so busy and exhausted about work and being the innovative type of person they are that they looked so emotionally and physically drained- of course, lack of sleep does not affect countries or states or regions, but it does put their health on decline.  
  
"Sometimes I wonder if I deserve all of my children."  
  
"You do", Osaka speaks up, touching his parental figure's shoulder, smiling up at them. "We may be frustrated that you put your work before us, but we still believe that you're our loving parent Japan, even if you don't look or act that way."  
  
Japan smiles, giving both of them a loose hug- something that both Tokyo and Osaka would cherish and remember for eternity.

 

* * *

  
  
The kettle whistles an ear-piercing scream, yet everyone ignores it as they go about milling inside of China's building. China was busy talking to someone on her phone, her voice raised an octave higher, having an argument against the one at the end of the line. Hong Kong was in another room, on a spa day, Macau was out of the building, probably with his friends, and Taiwan was the only one who turns the kettle off and pour his siblings a cup of tea. He places them on top of a tray, offering it to both China and Hong Kong and sitting down at one of the lounge's cushions.  
  
China then finally ends her call, stomping on her foot, and Taiwan looks up from his phone.  
  
"Bad dealership?", he asks, reading the next tweet on his phone.  
  
China groans. "Yeah. America, that bastard, has still not given up on the trade wars, despite already losing and having his allies twirled around my fingers. It was so goddamn easy to convince Philippines to join me, you know? And for what, getting back at America?"  
  
Taiwan chuckles a bit, sometimes liking his sister's rambling whenever it's not about Taiwan being a real country or falling under her rule. China and the other _'superpowers'_ are quite egotistical of themselves, stepping about and rubbing their status onto the other countries that are weaker than them.  
  
"You divorced America to have a trading war with him", Taiwan reminds China. "You're kinda petty as well."  
  
China rolls her eyes, dialling someone else on her phone. "I wanted to divorce him since the very beggining."  
  
"Britain and France didn't force you- you did it to ensure diplomatic ties. Don't forget that."  
  
"I'm not forgetting it. Hello? Yes, this is China." She turns away from Taiwan, now focused on this phone call. Taiwain rolls his eyes as he opens the YouTube app on his phone, plugging his ear phones and letting music flood around him. Their family was not the best, but at least they don't hate each other with a burning passion, unlike North and South.

 

* * *

  
  
"Fucking hell, Luzon", Philippines says, taking another roll of weed. "I told you that you needed to hide this in a much safer place, lest Duterte fucking takes it away from us."  
  
Luzon was taking shots along with Visayas, rolling his eyes as he pours another glass of liquour and downs it in his mouth with one gulp. "I _will_ murder him if he does that."  
  
Visayas snorts, hiccuping and unable to sit straight without swaying a lot of times. "You can't do that! Mindanao can shoot him on the head whenever he wants- he grew up in his homeland."  
  
Luzon and Visayas laugh, and Philippines chuckles, red in the face as everything around him blends in color. They were already having a blast without Mindanao, who was busy with errands and making sure his land is still at peace, despite threats that the president will release Martial Law from his cell.  
  
The door opens, and the three halt their laughter. Luzon groans, taking another bottle of liquour from the fridge and pouring it into the cups. Mindanao emerges from the kitchen's doorway, looking all poised, wearing a general's uniform with honor medals. He had gotten rid of his cap somewhere, and it shows off the dark hair cut into a buzz cut, and he was wearing gloves.  
  
"If it isn't Martial the second", Visayas says with a glee, taking a shot, and puring more liquour to another gas.  
  
Mindanao sighs, walking towards the fridge and opening it, and finds a water bottle. "Don't fucking call me that, Visayas. You know I'm not that monster."  
  
"Well, the president planned to-"  
  
"The president did not plan on _anything_." Mindanao says, drinking the whole water inside the bottle in one gulp, before crushing it with his hand and throwing it in the trash bin. "I'm still going to do my own fucking job."  
  
Philippines laughs, lighting up another cigarette. "You got feisty, anak."  
  
Mindanao glares at his father, something he usually does whenever he acts more irresponsible than Luzon and Visayas. "Sumasama ka na, ama."  
  
Without words, and, getting a box of cigarettes and one of the bottles of wine from the fridge, he stalks out of the kitchen.  
  
Luzon shrugs. "He must've went upstairs because he can't face us without crying."  
  
The three laugh, unaware that Mindanao, even if he had been upstairs, had heard it. He bites his lip, taking a cigarette and putting it between his teeth, lighting it up. He wants things to go back to normal, just the way it used to be. He looks at the stars, praying to Allah, waiting for his wish to come true.

 

* * *

  
  
South Korea looks at the sturdy walls his brother, North had built. They were engraved with barbed wire and Korean writings, insulting both sides. South touches the wall facing him, as music from the other side blasts propaganda music. How will he ever live after being separated from his twin? They used to be so in sync, talking and laughing, having no care in the world, until USSR and America tore them apart, South still feeling the scars of the blade cutting them in half, all because of a stupid game USSR and America were playing.  
  
He presses his head onto the walls, trying not to tear up. He wants to hear North Korea's voice, his warm arms, to see his eyes again light up with joy. Now it was replaced with something that _isn't_ his brother anymore.  
  
"I miss you."  
  
In the other side of the wall, North Korea paces back and forth, still deciding how to attack South Korea and Japan, while still getting approval from China. China was quite fed up with his bullshit- the threats of trying to launch more missiles at Japan and attacking South Korea - and North wants to get onto his good side again. North approaches the wall separating him and South, the walls smooth against his rough skin.  
  
He didn't even know why he wanted to be separated from South. They had been so close together, until USSR had taken him away from a part of his soul, now they _are_ apart from each other, _forever_.  
  
"I miss you", was what he whispers, knowing that South would not hear it, and he wishes that his brother can hear it.


	11. you never cared for me, mother, yet you forced me to care about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mother Asia is _always_ watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a removed piece from the chapter 'domestic families'- i believe that it deserves its own individual chapter.  
> Warning: This chapter contains gore.

Mongolia was often forgotten by everyone had come across. He was just a barren wasteland, they said, and he mostly keeps to himself, not disturbing anyone so they would not disturb him. Even his so-called allies do not converse with him, other than the general topics of resources and trading. Mongolia has never been a people person, and it really shows. He opens the door to the basement, lighting up his flashlight. He reminds himself to move the things to a place filled with much more light.

He descends down the basement, and as he steps, more dust erupts, which is quite peculiar- he has been visitng this site as daily as he can, and as he finally reaches the cold hard floor, all he can do is keep himself from sneezing. He flashes his light, trying to find where the light switch is until he finds it- suddenly the whole basement is now filled with white, and he can finally see her. The statue that he had carved for Mother.

It reaches the basment's ceiling, its porcelain surface smooth against Mongolia. Unlike the stairs, he had not neglected this fine marble statue; it was his life's work, and if she was watching over him, he would be thankful. The statue was just as tall as the basement- the statue had a sitting position, hands on her lap, wearing just undergarments to cover her chest, and a modest clothing around her waistline. Mongolia had used pieces of horse hair to piece together her hair; a dark, swirling mass, resting on top of her shoulders. She had a serene expression on her face, eyes closed, welcoming. He touches her stone texture, brushing off a spec of dust on her marble skin in disgust. He does not like dirt on his creations, especially this one.

Mongolia refuses to share his masterpiece to the entire world, preferring to keep the statue all by himself. If they treat him as an invisible man, let them treat all his canvasses and works like him as well. He was just a nobody country, something that shouldn't have existed. He had planned on killing himself and giving China his land, but he knows that Mother would not approve of his rash actions.

"I shall make you proud, Mother Asia", Mongolia says, touching his statue's marble leg. "You may not care about what is happening around your continent, but I do. I do very much."

He kneels down in front of the statue, clasping his palms, and closing his eyes in prayer. Mother Asia, unlike countries or states or whatnot, is quite large, like all other continents. It would take a lot of energy and time to conjure up a physical form, so the only thing Mother Asia does is whisper sweet nothings to her children's ear. The last time she had visited her children in her physical form was a lifetime ago; during the Black Death has been sickening Europe.

"Oh, Mother almighty, answer thy prayer, fmy sins, as thou forgive others' wrong doings, be with us forever and ever." Mongolia opens his eyes after his prayer, feeling quite refreshed and wanting to start the day with vigor and happiness.

He leaves the basement, closing the lights, unaware of a body standing right before him- translucent, yet glowing with brightness.

* * *

Russia's hearing _her_ again, despite his many pleas that he just wants to be left alone when he is alone. He runs towards the fridge, digging through the canned goods and food, looking for a bottle of vodka, but there was nothing, despite buying a dozen bottles of it from his store. His breathing increases, as he runs a hand over his hair, his ushanka covering it.

 _You are quite naughty child, Russia,_ the voice echoes throughout the halls, too melodic and whispy to be a banshee crawling through his house, and he flinches at the sound. He has always heard Mother Asia more than Mother Europe, either because Mother Asia loves tormenting him, or Mother Europe ignores him and her other children.

"Shut the fuck up", Russia mutters under his breath, which was still accelerating at a speed. "Get the fuck out of here, Asia!"

A gust of wind swirls around the room, slapping him hard across his face, and he stumbles back, getting support from his kitchen counter. He winces at the pain on his face and back, as he trembles, leaning on the counter. He has always feared Mother Asia, ever since the beginning when he was created.

 _Is that a way to talk to your mother?!_ she demands, voice a little higher. _I give you life, and this is how you repay me?_

"I'm tired of you being my mother, Asia", Russia says, gasping for breath, getting up from the counter. "Which is why I fully comitted myself to serving Mother Europe."

A bodiless sigh echoes throughout the house, as the breeze make the trees rustle. _I remember the times you worship me, thanking me for bringing you to life._

"Well, now I'm not grateful for being alive."

* * *

Japan was a religious person, still believing in the religion of Shintoism, but they never qualified as _strictly Shintoist_. Sure, he believes that Amaterasu is in the clouds, watching them and their people in her sun kingdom. They believe that Susanoo, god of storms, they believe in Izanami and the Land of the Dead.

Japan removes their gloves to reveal charred and dark skin, their fingers replaced with mechanical ones as each vein pop off of them. They rub their hands together, ignoring the slight pain as their arms are exposed to the outside air. They take the elevator, commanding their A.I to drop them to the bottom floors. It was one of their secret floors; not even Anime knows about this being in their daily routine.

As they reach the bottom floor, the lights automatically switch on, sensing their presence in the floor. They step inside of the halls, its barren walls and dim lights making it somewhat of a horror movie setting. Japan sets to find the door where their statue of Mother Asia stands, feeling like they owe the all-mighty Mother a prayer. They find it- the door before Hiroshima and Nagasaki's shrine, and they open it, taking out a lighter from one of his pockets, and lights the candles up until it luminates the whole room, showing the statue of Mother Asia crafted out of wood. Japan had written so many songs and hymns about her, despite never seeing her. They bow in front of her statue, until their head touches the floor.

"I have not been praying to you, all mighty Mother Asia", they say, eyes closed in prayer. "But I wish to thank you for such good graces you have given me, and forgiving my sins so easily. I must say, you are one of the most merciful mothers out there, Mother Asia."

It is quite strange, bowing down to someone you have only met once in a lifetime. They remember the way Mother Asia looked; the continent embedded on her face, her long dark hair trailing behind her, wearing every single diverse clothing in her continent, a serene smile on her face as she braids flowers onto her hair. Japan believed she was quite beautiful when they first saw her. Japan wonders if she still is.

* * *

The sound of squelching and choked noises fill the air, as he retracts his blade from a man, as he falls down along with the others. He steps on the corpses, a victorious smile on his face. He stomps on one of the corpses, which had been cut too deeply, until his organs were now falling off. Vietnam kneels, trying to feel what organs had fallen out of the person, a sickening smile forming across his lips.

"Quite a display", he murmurs to himself, growling at the darkness slowing his proccess down, as he starts to touch one of the organs, which are the large intestines. Vietnam, chuckling like a madman, starts to rub the organs around his body, soaking himself in blood, his heart beating fast.

Mother Asia shall approve of this endeavor. She had told him herself that she does not want sinners in Vietnam's land, and he follows her, ever the obedient child he was. Non-believers must face his cruelty, and if they wish to be spared, let them worship Mother Asia, the greatest of the Old Ones. Vietnam laughs, as he covers himself in blood, not wanting anyone to interrupt his revelry session.

Vietnam continues, assassinating men and women alike in the dead of the day, the sweltering heat a distraction for him as he hides in trees and bushes, and in the night, he opens up the corpses of his victims, offering their hearts as sacrifice to Mother Asia.

* * *

Mother Asia hums, braiding flowers onto her hair, humming several pop songs mixed into one. She is underneath the lands, underneath her children, preferring to stay underground, not wanting to engage contact with the other continents. She had her eyes closed, her lips curved into a small smile. She opens one eye, as she looks at her orbs, monitoring her children's lives the orbs the equivalent of a security camera.

There was Philippines, being his pathetic self by getting into drunk fights. There was North and South Korea, weeping at the wall between them. There was Indonesia and Malaysia, trying to kill each other due to the schisms they were having. There was India, trying to stabilize his situation and his crippling poverty. Many countries, her children, are living in quite a pathetic condition. She birthed every single one of them, to do her justice and good, but all they were doing is creating petty fights with each other. She sighs, giving up on braiding her hair, just staring at her children with her hundred eyes.

She is _always_ watching, maybe even now.


	12. quite a reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Danganronpa v3.  
> Warning: Has suicidal themes in the story and some mental trauma, because, you know, Danganronpa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i get too self-indulgent that i have to combine to of my favorite fandoms

Great Britain, one of the survivors of the Danganronpa v3, roams the halls until they finds one door engraved with the name of _Japan_ on its plaque. They stops outside of it, preparing themself as they fix their hair, even though it was nicely fixed by France and Spain. Both of their hands were trembling, a side effect of not being in touch with the real world and their senses for far too long. Britain knocks on the door, biting their lower lip, waiting for a response on the other side.

"Come in", a hoarse voice says, and Britain wants to cry themself to death. It _is_ him, and they were still alive despite their brutal execution at the hands of Monokuma.

 _Snap out of it, Britain_ , they think, rocking their brain back and forth, trying to get rid of the thoughts that they had witnessed Japan dying. _It was all fake, a simulation, a virtual reality._

But the injuries were not fake. The memories weren't either, and its long lasting scars still stretch onto them for eternity. Sometimes Britain had difficulty getting in touch with the real world, always deeming it as an illusion, not believing it was real until Spain and France start to weep. Britain regrets the decision of being in Danganronpa, and they wish to turn back to the past and push it forward, without getting in touch of Danganronpa.

Britain opens the door with a twist, and is met with cool air fanning from around them, as they are met with a bed, a person with ebony hair and brown eyes lying on top of it, staring emotionless at the television, clicking on the remote to change the channels. Britain clears his throat, and Japan's attention snaps to him.

"Hey", Japan says, smiling a bit. The sight of Japan smiling makes Britain's heart flutter. "You're real."

Britain nods, walking slowly towards Japan, with a wide smile on their face. "I am. I'm as real as I can get."

Japan sighs as they point to a chair right next to they, and Britain follows, sitting down, staring at Japan's chesnut brown orbs, their life flashing through their eyes. Suddenly Britain can also feel their own life flashing before their eyes, their memories during the simulation and their real memories becoming tangled masses of memories again. Their head starts to hurt, and they shake those memories off, only focusing their gaze on Japan, the one whom they loved and lost during the killing game.

"You remember me?", Japan asks, switching the television off.

"Yeah", Britain says. "I remember you from the day I woke up from that simulation."

Japan smiles. "I only remember fragments of our time in the game. But it's mostly you who I remember."

"When did you start remembering me?"

"They forced me to watch the whole show, from prologue to epilogue, and I've always felt some kind of fascination to you, even when you had confessed your own feelings to me in chapter five.."

"They forced you to watch _everything_? God, I am so going to burn this whole building down." And Britain did want to set the building on fire. They wanted to set the whole world on fire, and they want to watch the flames eat its way up to the top of the world.

Japan takes one of Britain's shaking hands, and links it with one of their own. Both of their hands are shaking as they touch one another's hands, but it comes to a halt when they also hold eye contact and hands.

"You were an asshole during the game, you know?"

Britain laughs. "You were a narcissist during the game, you know?"

Japan sighs. "What's it like?"

"What's it like to what?"

"To remember everything."

Britain pauses at the question, clenching and unclenching their hands. They remember every single thing as they wake up, disillusioned from reality and only armed with fists, the faces above them are a sea of strangers, trying to take care of them despite it being _their_ fault that they have become like this- a shell of their former self. He had seen who they were before the whole simulation started- from what they can gather through their diaries, social media posts, and audition tape, they were a rich bastard, always getting whatever they want, uncaring and unable to feel sympathy for others. They still retain most of their personality during the killing game, but they changed their charisma and joy to one of apathy.

Sometimes Britain had thoughts of killing themself, drowning themself, falling off their building's floor to the ground, anything that can make them stop suffering, make them stop living like _this_. Their parents had come, yet instead of treating them like family, they had treated them as strangers. They have no clue whether to be happy that their backstory was not true, that it was all fabricated to create a plot device, or that he should be joyful he didn't have such awful parents.

Sometimes they believe that they are in another person's story, being mashed together to create a perfect story line and concept so they could gain more evidence, as if their personal life is something that the others could play with, because, _you know,_ , they are the gods of his world and they do whatever they want to their measly toys that help them gain a lot of money.

"I don't know if I can describe it", Britain finally says after moments of silence. "Because I'm thankful that the whole thing in the simulation wasn't real, but I feel like reality is also somehow _distorted_ , like I can't seem to get over the fact that everything is real and not a goddamn simulation in the mind."

"I have another question for you", Japan says, holding both of Britain's hands firmly, and Britain can feel warmth inside of them, making them feel even better about himself and others.

"Ask away."

"I love you."

Britain laughs. "That isn't a question."

Japan smiles. "I know." They struggle to get up until they're in a sitting position, looking at Britain in such a loving way that Britain wants to vomit. Japan kisses Britain on the lips, and the other did not hesitate to kiss back.


	13. 1/6 out of the gravity (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poland can into space, he just needs to find it first in earth itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been listening to the marvelous song 1/6 out of the gravity, and it reminded me of Poland x Germany.

Poland has a dream that he can chase all throughout the world until he finally grants it for himself. He wishes to go into space, to see the stars and planets and the moon up close, with his own eyes, other than using a telescope to see the beautiful species himself. He can just see it now; the stars and galaxies all revolving around him. Poland would love the feeling of not being able to lift his own weight, just letting space make him float for all eternity.

Then he is back to earth, doing his work in a tight-spaced cubicle, as his other high-ranking coworkers have fun someplace else while he's stuck working at his dead-end job. Poland needs to remind himself that not everyone has an easy life, and that he is no exception as well. He swears, quite frustrated at the loads of paperwork European Union had given to him. It was no surprise that Germany's son would be so work-glorifying.

Poland needs to at least do two things in his life; one, he needs to at least rise up from this goddamn job in order to get a pay raise, and two, he needs to go to space right away.

He looks out at the window, somewhat surprised that it was already nighttime, meaning that the stars would be out, dancing towards the night sky and sleeping in for the morning. Poland gets up from hus cubicle as he walks to a nearby window, opening it and letting the breeze flow right into the building as he sticks his head out of the window. He stares in wonder at the stars above him, wondering if he can catch every single one of them with only his palms. He smiles at the beautiful sight above him, loving the way the moon was a glowing crescent, loving how the stars twinkle brightly across the sky.

"Polen?" Of course, the beautiful moment is interrupted by someone, and Poland removes himself at the windows and locks it, looking at Germany, who, frankly, looks a lot like a tornado had unleashed a havoc towards his body. Is that how workaholics look like? Uncaring of their own appearance but cares only about work?

"Yes, Niemcy?", Poland asks, approaching Germany, seeing that his hair was quite a mess, hair strands sticking out of it, and his work clothes missing a layer.

"It is almost midnight, Polen", Germany says, pointing towards the clock, which reads 'twelve'.

Poland wad quite surprised at how late it was in the evening when the last time he had seen it, it was only quarter to eight.

Germany shakes his head, sighing. "You've been daydreaming too much, Polen." Germany puts his paperwork down on Poland's cubicle, as he walks towards Poland. Poland instinctively takes a step back, and Germany stops walking, sighing lightly, guilt written over eyes.

Poland mentally slaps himself- he still hadn't moved on from the times the Second German Empire had held him captive and forced him into a relationship, and... _him_ and USSR, splitting himself in half just like that. He keeps reminding himself that Germany isn't _both_ those cruel beings, even if he was their latest incarnation.

"I-I'm sorry", Germany stutters, his professional and calm composure wavering whenever he is faced with Poland. Poland sighs, taking a step forward, and it is now Germany who steps backwards, a look of regret on his face. "I-I really am, Polen-"

"I know", Poland says firmly, with a sad look in his eyes. He looks at the heavy circles under Germany's eyes. He must have been overworking himself again, especially now that Poland was much closer to Germany, whose hands were trembling, either from guilt or from exhaustion. "Have you been sleeping well?" He changes the subject, wanting to put Germany off the guilt trip.

"I sleep during the afternoons...", Germany says, fixing his glasses. Poland didn't really know what the point was with Germany wearing glasses- was it to hide how he's blind?

"You never sleep during the night?"

Germany shakes his head. "No, I spend my time tinkering with my cars or doing my work."

Poland sighs, shaking his head. "You workaholics sure put your work over your health."

"It's the only thing that can keep me _stable_ , I guess."

"Choosing your health can make you more stable, you dumbass", Poland says, crossing his arms. He wonders what it would feel like to be a workaholic- would he feel enlightened at doing only work and disregarding the fact that they need to live healthy to continue said work? Would workaholics refuse to take breaks even when their bodies says to rest, to the point that someone will rot in their place, forever distracted by all the work they have in their palms, as they try and create a perfect profession to work in?

"I care about my health, of course", Germany says, pushing his glasses towards the bridge of his nose. "I just get distracted by the loads of work I do."

Poland looks at Germany with an emotionless look, tired of playing this game with the other man. He _is_ tired, from the shaking eyes and fast-blinkering eyes, Poland could see that Germany needs to sleep every once in a while. They weren't friends, just acquaintances in this working hellhole, but maybe Germany needs someone to help him journey across all the realms and learn how to stop hiding his feelings inside of a cape. Poland decides to be _that_ person in Germany's life, despite their painful history together.

"Hey Germany", Poland pulls out a phone from one of his pockets, "can I ask for your address?"

Germany wears a face of bewilderment, as if no one has ever asked that question before. Poland had seen him hanging out or having a conversation with America, France, or Britain, but it seems that Germany relies on them to carry the conversation despite being vice-president of the European Union, next to his son.

"Well, if you want", Germany also pulls out his phone, Poland hearing the female voice inside of his phone, courtesy of that inventive asshole Japan. He's met Japan formally during the '56, once they have joined the UN, and he did not have any interesting opinions about them but knew that they were a walking terror to east Asian countries during the Second World War. Germany recites his number, and after finishing with the last digit, Poland saves it to his contacts.

Then they stand there, an awkward silence passing among them, with Poland staring at Germany, looking at the other's translucent eyes. Germany, unlike the others, holds his head in a much more miderate view, not craning down to meet Poland's eyes, not turning his head up to see a taller country.

Poland wonders what it was like to be blind, being unable to see the light and the wonders of the world, only seeing darkness wherever he goes. What if Poland's vision was ripped away from him the second he launches himself to space? He wouldn't see the vast outer space and its stars, and he can't just _touch_ any of them; that idea is presumptous to even consider. Would he just be staring blankly in the darkness, trying to sew together his imagination to find a perfect galaxy just for him?

"Polen, your head is in the clouds again." He blinks, finding himself back into the cramped office in where he works for EU, with Germany right in front of him. "You should have left an hour ago."

"Right, yeah", Poland grabs his suitcase and his car keys, giving Germany an awkward smile even though he knows he wouldn't see it; it just feels like the _right_ thing to do. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Niemcy."

Germany nods, slowly turning to face him. "Yes, I shall see you tomorrow."

Poland waves a goodbye as he closes the wooden door, going to the parking lot and searching for his car, which was always at the far end of the lot. Poland gets in and straps his seatbelt, as he starts the engine and drives away, reminding himself to text Germany as soon as he gets home. He finds himself looking at the stars, smiling dreamily, wondering if going to space would be the key to all his happiness.

As he returns back to his miserable apartment in the middle of a noisy city, he fixes himself with a midnight snack, having completely forgotten to eat dinner during the working hours. He helps himself to a carton of milk in the fridge and toast, as he looks at the window, staring at the night's blanket dotted with stars.

Suddenly, he remembers the reminder he had given to himself a few minutes ago, to call Germany once he's already home, and he does.

**To Germany: Hey Germany, in my house and serving myself dinner**

Much to Poland's disappointment, Germany does not respond, and he sighs. Germany was probably burying himself in his work again, like he always is.

_You and I will meet someday_ , he thinks to himself, as he cleans up his table, and goes to lie down on his bed, not caring about changing clothes or taking a shower. This night, despite of dreaming of being split into half, he is dreaming of floating his space, a wide smile on his face as he joyously leaps through meteorite to meteorite.

* * *

Poland's happy dream is suddenly cut short by the alarm clock's obnoxious ringing, and, with a frustrsted growl, he throws it across the room, blaming it for his happy dream fading away. Poland tries to scramble for the dream, trying to find the fragments and memories inside of his dream, but all he finds is nothing but blurry visions. It was like the dream was not real, like he had been transported to another universe where he had gotten a taste of the space and stars, but it seems that the deities from above do not wish to let him remember.

Poland immediately stands up from his bed without stretching, which was immediately a bad idea, as hus muscles start to burn, making him stumble across the bathroom, trying to turn the hot water on and undresses himself, as he gets inside of the shower. He had no idea why he was rushing, maybe because he couldn't bare to be late anymore since he's going to have to face the wrath of EU. Poland frees his phone from his charger, making himself breakfast with a cup of black coffee and cereal. It wasn't a _wholesome_ breakfast, but he treats it as if it was his last supper.

He dresses up in a sweater vest and black pants as he starts up his car and locks his apartment.

Poland enters his workplace, already full of the other European countries. Poland greets European Union, who was busy talking -no, arguing- with their father, and he quickly goes to the coffee machine, craving for another cup of caffeine. He takes one of the useless paper cups and puts it over the coffee maker, and waits. There were only three people in the room other than him, and those were France, Britain and Belgium, talking about something that Poland didn't bother on eavesdropping, since his coffee's done.

He immediately goes to his cubicle, seeing a stack of paper work, probably left by EU for him. Poland sighs. He's going to have to do this dead-end job until he has to go to space. Then, once he is in the beautiful outer space, he would not have any problems in his life anymore.

He takes out his phone, and his heart leaps as he sees one new message from Germany, which was delivered to him in one in the morning.

**From Germany: I hope you sleep well.**

Poland smiles, despite Germany texting him an hour late. He goes back to his work, wearing his headphones, listening to his preferred music.

An hour into his work, someone taps his shoulder, and he turns around, much to his surprise, to find Germany. He removes his earphones and give Germany a smile. He was holding his paperwork, an exhausted expression all over his face. Poland's smile wavers when he sees his face.

"There will be a meeting in the afternoon, after lunch is over", Germany says, and Poland nods, nothing to say. Germany walks away, and Poland can feel something deep inside of him wanting to follow the blonde haired man and just embracing him, making the other feel warmth.

As the clock ticks twelve, he gathers his wallet and a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, wanting to get out of that cramped work place as fast as he can. It's not that he _hates_ working in there- it's because of the fact that being trapped in a small space for a long time can make him suffocate, despite having an air conditioner directed right at him. Poland can just feel his lungs sigh in relief, as they are greeted with fresh air from the outside world. Poland finds a simple restaurant at the other side of town, and he decides to eat for a modest lunch.

Poland waits for his order inside of the restaurant, the scent of their food making his mouth water. Poland takes his hands off his phone once the wait is over, a tray of food right in front of him as he starts to eat. He did not finish his food as he runs out of the restaurant, wanting to smoke some cigarettes in some obscure corner of the building. Poland looks at his phone; it was still early to go back to that cramped space, so he heads towards the lounge, which was, as always, full of people.

"Ah, Poland, old chap", Britain says, a cigarette between their teeth. Poland is pretty sure they have snorted a gram or two, judging from the way they're acting. Britain gives them a pat on the back and gestures sit right next to him. France waves at him, puffing a cigarette. "How are you in this fine day?"

"You _totally_ snorted something", Poland says.

Britain laughs. "You are quite observant, young fellow."

"Nah, it's just... _obvious_."

France chuckles. "They're obviously oblivious."

"Pretty sure you're high as well. How would you two ever compose yourselves during the meeting?"

Britain shakes his hand, "Fuck the meeting. I'm not going to be in the exact same room as that wanker."

"You mean European Union?" France offers Poland a cigarette but he shakes his head, pulling out one cigarette stick and lighting it up.

"Yeah, they're the worst."

France rolls her eyes. "That's what you always say, but you never ever make up your fucking mind on leaving or staying here."

"Brexit, Brexits forever", Poland states. "Anyway, any of you got a gram?"

"Says the person who doesn't want us to act high in a meeting, but sure." Britain gives him an entire pack, and Poland takes it, eyes sparkling. "Be careful with hiding that in plain sight. Germany has keen glasses, you know."

Poland raises a brow, replacing his dying cigarette with another one. "What do you mean by that?"

"Japan gave him a brand new tech in his glasses that gives Germany the ability to _see_ ", France answers, blowing on her cigarette. "Well, isn't that fucking wack?"

"Was this just recent?"

"Oh, no", Britain replies. "A little something over six months ago."

"How come _I_ never noticed that?"

"No one did until Germany decided to humiliate America in front of the United Nations." Britain laughs at the thought, and sometimes Poland wonders if Britain and America even treat each other as father and son- maybe making fun of each other is their familial bonding...? Britain looks at him. "Oh, right, you were not there because you were having a fever, remember?"

"No one told me about that whole fiasco", Poland says.

"You should've seen his face", France says with a smirk. "His natural confident façade just broke away."

"You two, for America's parents, really love talking about him behind his back."

The three of them jump from where they were sitting, and Britain stands, stumbling a bit. France fixes her plaid skirt, as she looks at Germany with a faux smile.

"I'm pretty sure America talks to us behind our backs as well", Britain replies, reattaching their image as cool and composed, like they always are.

"He does", Germany says, walking over to the three of them with something that screams _authority_ , and Poland just can't help his knees shaking, as his trembling hands light up another cigarette. Poland just cannot shake off the past, and neither do Britain nor France, as they stand their guard. Germany looks at the pack between Poland's hands, and he sighs. "Polen, who gave you that?"

"I did", Britain replies. "Because he wanted to."

"I will confiscate this from you, Polen", Germany says, and Poland did not fight back- Germany may look strict and all, but it would be hypocritical to take away someone else's stash if he, _hypothetically_ , has one. But who wouldn't have a secret stash of drugs? "I will return this to you before you leave, is that clear?"

"Uh, sure."

Germany turns to look at Britain and France with a glare. "And you two, please stop giving people your stash."

"This isn't ours anyway", Britain shrugs, "we bought it from Netherlands."

"Of course you did. Come now, we're having the meeting in five minutes." The four of them walk through the front doors, and Poland is greeted again with cold air blowing around him.

European Union greets everyone as they come one by one during the meeting, and Poland sits at the end of the table, like he always would. It's not because he wanted to sit between other people, but he usually chooses this seat instinctively, to get further away from Germany. His whole reason was fucking stupid, of course, but it's now his favorite seat in the whole room. No one can bother him as he half-listens half-dreams, except the one sitting next to him was Belgium, who never really bothers him.

Poland chooses to tune out the whole meeting, due to it being meaningless to him and some others who didn't want to be here. After all, all he does in this miserable life is work, eat, and _live_ , something he hates the most. Poland has a feeling that he can never shake all his trauma and his past, that once his past gives him another nightmare, he had the brilliant idea of tying a noose around his neck.

It was quite hard to kill someone like himself once he's an embodiment of a country.

He was long dead, before '39.

* * *

It's already seven, and almost everyone is leaving for somewhere else. He sighs, packing all his things, when he feels a light tap on his shoulder. He spins around to find Germany, hands behind his back, looking around cautiously. Poland knows that Germany was trying to keep his record as a benevolent worker clean, that holding a bag of cocaine is not good conduct and he would lose his Employee of the Month Award - well, if they had one, which they did not.

"Here is your pack", he says softly, as he gives the sandwhich bag to Poland as discreetly as he could without anyone paying attention to both of them.

"Well, thanks", Poland says, putting it inside his briefcase. Suddenly, an idea in his head strikes his brain at lightning speed. "Hey Germany, do you want to get high with me?"

Germany's eyes widen in surprise. "Uh, well, t-that would be quite i-inappropriate-"

"Kurwa, Germany, never thought that just asking you to go and snort cocaine with me can turn you to a stuttering mess." Poland chuckles. "But seriously, do you _want_ to get high?"

"Well, yes, but me and EU are-"

"Dad, go get high with Poland", EU interrupts their father by saying a loud declaration of permission, startling everyone remaining in the office. Germany turns to glare at his son, a light pink tinging his cheeks, but he sighs.

"Alright, Polen", Germany says.

_Looks like I won't be alone tonight_ , Poland thinks, smiling at the thought of having a guest in his apartment, despite them having a troubled past. Was he really that desperate to not be left alone? Germany follows Poland, stumbling for a few steps, and it seems that the glasses Japan made for him aren't exactly made for the night. Poland, being a _nice_ person that he is, offers to help Germany stand upright and guide him to his car, where in which he sits on the passenger seat.

"Do you, like, ever smoke cigarettes?", Poland asks, wanting to start a conversation as he starts the engine and smoothly drives away from the building.

Germany looks at his direction with a raised eyebrow. "Of course I do. Almost all countries smoke, Polen."

"So... do you actually want to get high with me?"

Germany shrugs. "It's a one time opportunity."

"Really? Like, you've _never_ gotten high before?"

"No, blöd. I mean getting high with _other_ people, you know?"

Poland smirks. "I can't believe you just dropped your composure like that and called me stupid."

"S-sorry."

"Hey, głupek, no need to cry over a stupid insult. Friends do that, like, all the fucking time."

"Do you consider _us_ friends?"

To be honest, _no_ , he did not think that he and Germany were close friends, they are just aforementioned acquaintances who only talk to each other about work. But lately, Poland seems to care more about the other's health and well being, and trying to catch on the fact that maybe, if he can help a person and be _nice_ to them, will he be able to go to space, as a thank you gift of taking care of them? Or is he just trying to cling on the fact that he is lonely and he needs someone in his life?

"Well, yeah. Today, we're now friends."

Germany's translucent eyes speak more than his mouth- his eyes twinkle, just like the stars up above.

* * *

Getting high all by himself in his lonely apartment is one thing, but getting high with someone else is a brand new feeling. Sure, he's been with people getting high, but never to an extent where he can invite one of them into his own apartment. He lights up a cigarette, giving it to Germany.

"Want it?"

"Sure", Germany sticks the cigarette between his teeth, looking as if he does not care much, but Poland is pretty sure that he fucking does, but is reluctant to show his emotions or put his guard down. Does Germany really need to be an uptight asshole all the time? Poland says no, and he wants him to get lose for just only a night. Poland wants to teach him that there is more than working, that there is another world out there.

Poland also lights up a cigarette, as he takes the sandwhich bag of cocaine from his briefcase, and arranges them into fine lines, not caring about their measurements until Germany steps in and arranges them into neat lines, measured evenly. Poland raises a brow, but Germany shrugs as he pulls out a thin paper and starts to snort on the first line. Poland follows as well, and now they're both high, lounging on the couch. Poland feels free when they are like this; being high means not feelin the restraints of the human world, being filled with ecstasy as he snorts even more cocaine lines. He looks at Germany, who was in the same condition as him, having no care for the world, which was quite unusual to see, even for him. Germany was leaning onto the couch, snorting more cocaine and also smoking a cigarette.

" _Fuck_ ", Poland never thought that Germany can say something so crude, but, he thinks wrong, that Germany is like all the other countries; human, but not quite.

"That's the first time I've heard you say something like that", Poland says.

"Well, that's prolly 'cause I'm so fucking good at hiding my emotions."

"Hm, guess you're right."

They relapse to a comfortable silence, only breaking it when they sigh or say something incoherent, and Poland actually likes the silence they're having. It's not forcing them to have a conversation due to how awkward it is, but it's not forcing them to not talk either. It was just a beautiful, comfortable silence, in which everything is real, but nothing is real at the same time.

"I want to go to space someday", Poland speaks up, the fine silence breaking in tranquility.

Germany raises a brow as he lights up another cigarette again. "That's... presumptuous."

Poland glares at him, and sighs. "Of course you're gonna kill my fucking mood, Germany, of course."

"Why the hell do you want to be in space?"

"'Cause I fucking want to, alright? This is my dream, and I've been so goddamn fascinated with it ever since America came back with this stupid-looking grin on his face, claiming - god forbid - he had conquered the moon. I just wanna fucking go to space, to see if it's like, the good shit I hear people talk about once they go into space. Like, goddamn it, fuck. I wanna feel _free_ , I wanna look at the stars, I wanna look at everything in a new perspective."

"You're quite a dreamer, Poland, I like that."

"Yeah, whatever, thanks."

They then elapse to another silence, until it is now Germany who speaks up.

"I really fucking hate the idea of freedom."

"Why? I mean it's... _freedom_. What, you wanna be a prisoner for all these years?"

Germany flinches, and Poland knows he hits a sore spot, but he does not apologize. "Well, I am technically free, but my actions are limited."

"My actions are limited too, you know."

"I know." Germany sighs, and Poland does. To feel himself being watched every single day, 'till the end of time, it's sickening to be monitored. Which is why he wants to go to the outer space and stay there, forever and ever.

But it seems like someone from up above knows that there is an outer space just inside of Earth, and it's sitting right beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been writing this for a few days and got myself sick for it. don't care about the typos right now, 'cause i'm so fucking tired right now and i want this part published out of my life.


	14. fragments of lives they cannot control; they must live through it all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a half-assed chapter where all my short and abandoned story-lines fit. also that title was not clearly taken from another work of mine haha no fuck i'm high

_It is time to put an end to this_ , Rome thinks to himself, as he brandishes his spear and shield, until his reflection is visible. He smiles meekly at the reflection, then goes back to trying to think of plans to sack Carthage. Rome narrows his eyes at the map his commanders and generals gave to him.

_You have no Hannibal on your side now._

Rome was quite proud of Hannibal Barca, the only enemy they will ever respect, remembering the times that he had Rome kneeling on his knees, stumbling down the steps, fearing the day that he will lose the glorious empire he has built to the hands of _traders_. But he was helped on to his feet by a young man named Scipio Africanus, and he guided Rome back to his former glory.

He and Carthage had been friends, once. They were in different sides of the spectrum of power, and Rome wishes to have all Carthage's power as well.

Rome looks at the map with a smile; it is finally time to graze Carthage's land with salt.

* * *

England looks out to the destroyed walls of Rome, his father's empire crashing down right in front of him. He had woken up to the sound of people screaming, to the sound of bandits, _Vandals_ , running towards the centre of the city, to the coliseum, in which his father Rome resides in. England had woken his siblings up, the people he fights against due to his father's biddings, to defend their falling empire from the reins of the barbarians.

Many of the defending soldiers died, while the others ran away like little cowards. England and his brothers try to alert their father into joining the defensive front against the barbarians, but they were too late.

As England races towards the shrines and fountains and flailing people, he finally finds the room in where Rome resides. He frantically opens the door, not caring if he makes a noise, because _goddamn it_ , the barbarians were making way more than noise.

"Father", he pants as he looks at the sleeping image of Rome, "please help me and my siblings defeat the barbarians, we are losing-"

Then England sees a sort of purple liquid in the corner of his father's mouth, and dreaded terror washes over him, as he takes away the blankets from Rome's body. To his horror, most of Rome's body has now turnes to ashes, and only his neck and head are remaining. England screams, the only thing he can do in the situation, as he desperately claws the ashes flying away, disassembling Rome's neck, then finally his head.

He has turned to ashes. He was not dead, but he will be dead until he is given a chance in rebirth. But England knows he cannot wait until his rebirth, knowing that he won't be the father figure he loves and hates simultaneaously.

All he has left was the hollow feeling inside of his chest, something that has not left him, gnawing at him. England's mind forces him to watch his memories regarding Rome and he, being father and son. He remembers the first time he had interacted with his father, as he found England in a box and takes him in with his brothers. Then the fighting and duels, then meeting with the Scandinavians in the North, then England and his brothers fusing for the first time to become entirely someone else, then his nightly escapades to go into the cities. Many bittersweet and happy memories collide with each other, until they become a confusing, confuddling mix inside of England's brain, whether he should even feel remorse at the death or rejoice.

England is snapped out of his musings by Scotland, who gives him the reins of a horse. They are leaving Rome, to find a better home. They weren't going to greet the Byzantine Empire in the far east, and England wants to leave the remains of the city as fast as he can.

England nods, pointing to the snowy areas. "To the north, we shall build a new home."

* * *

The streets are all full of rats. Rats that needes to be beat to justice. The alleys are full of garbage people, living in the streets, and sometimes, Spain pities them all. He has become quite accustomed to going to seemingly abandoned alleys, to luring Catalonia to him, with her little group of bikers. Spain lights up a cigarette, as he walks towards one alleyway that has never seen the light. It was the perfect way to set up bait.

He leans onto the moldy wall, hating the fact that the dirt is going to be on his leather jacket, which he had washed a few days ago. Why was he letting Catalonia catch him when he can do it? After all, he has the upper hand, and he is smarter than his daughter. She was quitr an ambitious woman, though, wanting to be independent from him. He didn't want another war errupting in his country, back to the days of dissonance and chaos ruling over them.

Spain finally sees his target, and he smirks, letting the cigarette fall onto the ground as he steps on it. He turns his amber eyes towards his daughter, Catalonia, who was trying to look intimidating right next to her father. She was quite a stubborn woman, and he loves her for it.

"What a nice surprise, Catalonia."

Catalonia sighs, as she approaches her father with a stern expression. "Save it, father. I already know how your bait works."

Spain laughs. "I've been doing it for a few years, and this is the time you get what I'm doing?" He shakes his head. "You are quite slow, little girl."

* * *

Maybe this is how Philippines would die, arms unbound as the wind flies, tangling his hair. No one gives an utter shit about him, so maybe he can just fucking do this without his sons looking after him. Then he realizes it was a fan, flowing beneath him in the breeze.


	15. the cringe-worthy sunshine harem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i think the title takes it from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's so fucking sloppy and i'm disappointed, but i'm tired just take it

**SpainPhil**

Philippines jolts up from another nightmare, and he feels hot under the many blankets he owns. He was sweating, hard, his throat dry. Philippines stumbles around his house, trying to find the water dispenser. He finds it, and he takes out a glass from the cupboards, and he presses the cold water section, watching the water pour until the cup is full. He drinks the water in just a gulp, and he shivers.

He had another nightmare, again, about being the wife of Spanish Empire, despite it being a century ago. He should've been over the goddamn thing, like how he was over America and Japan. But his mind makes him rewatch all of the memories he had tried to throw away into the abyss, but it seems that he can't make himself forget everything.

Especially Spain.

Philippines' eyes narrow, trying to look through his memories to find _one_ happy memory with Spain, and yes, only one turned up; them playing in the gardens, harvesting rice with their bare palms. It was the last time Philippines had seen that sweet smile on Spanish Empire's face, before it was replaced by that smug smirk he knows and hates.

Philippines sighs as he looks at the time. He was going to have breakfast with Mexico, to bond over their many misfortunes in life. They had bonded over the painful memories of being Spain's colony, being mistreated, being forced to learn Spanish and change their religion.

Mexico turned out to be just like his father when it comes to parenting, the evidence being his failed marriage with America in the seventeenth century; naturally, America complained about Mexico to Philippines, who was quite disappointed with the way he had raised Texas and New Mexico.

Philippines takes his jacket from one of the couches, and he locks the door. He runs, the sun glistening from behind his back, making his temperature complain as sweat starts to trail off his back. It was the fastest way to Mexico's bar, other than the motorcycle. Well, he loves his bike, so of course he was not going to dirty it.

He finds Mexico behind the counter, and he smiles and waves at him, and Mexico, behind that sombreró, waves at him. His dark skin was light under the lightbulb, and the bar was not quite packed like it was in the evenings.

"Mexico!", Philippines greets, sitting down on a bar stool. "How have you been?"

"I am doing fine, amigo!", Mexico replies, giving Philippines a glass of water. "Hey, you look troubled. Tell me, what's on your mind?"

"Nah, I just woke up from another nightmare", Philippines replies, looking at the glass of water in distaste. "No vodka yet?"

Mexico shrugs, wiping another glass. "If you want vinegar, sure."

"Ugh, whatever. Anyway, it's about Spain again."

Mexico sighs, looking at Philippines with a 'not surprised' expression. "Of course it was. Have you ever considered trying to be _friends_ with the guy?"

Philippines laughs. "Fuck no. It's not like _you're_ doing the same either."

Mexico shrugs. "Maybe because I'm still reeling from the fact that he was a terrible father and spouse?"

Philippines fake flinches. "You wound me."

Mexico laughs. "Oh, shut up, Phil."

"Me, shut up? Never in my fucking life."

"But still, do you want to repair relations with Spain?"

"Ew, no."

Mexico shrugs as he finally pours Philippines vodka that he yearns for. "Then don't. No one's forcing you to side with that vexing bastard."

**AmePhil**

Philippines shakes his head as he looks at America with an emotionless expression.

"Tangina naman America. Parang kala mo laruan lang ako."

America, that stuck-up, obnoxious bastard, laughs, "Speak English, Phil."

Philippines raises a brow, then sighs. "Your president's an asshole."

America nods. "So I've been told."

"I've cut ties with you."

"Mhm, yeah, I know."

"And you look like you don't care. You look like you don't care if the world is set ablaze."

America sighs, putting one of his hands under his glasses- Philippines can remember the blue hue under those dark glasses, liking the way it had swayed him to believe every word America says, and then America traps him back in the goddamn bird cage he had spent years escaping out of.

He hates blue eyes.

"I do care about everything, Phil."

"Yeah, try and keep telling yourself that."

America smirks, looking at Philippines. "Why the hell are you here, again? To ask me for help over your and China's discourse?"

"Nah." Philippines takes out a lighter, then a pack of cigarettes. He also takes a roll of weed from one of his jacket's pockets. "I just wanna get high with you."

America smiles, as he takes one roll. "'Course I'll get high with someone."

**JapanPhil**

"You've been working too hard, Japan; why don't you rest a bit?", Philippines asks, as he leans onto Japan during the meeting, while the other was scribling down notes and actually paying attention to what UN was saying.

Japan shakes their head, their eyes on the paper. "I'm working on a slow pace."

"God, you haven't slept for three days. Who are you- _Germany_?"

Japan rolls their eyes. "Love the guy, but he's way worse than I ever will be."

"You took the habit from him."

"Well, yeah, I guess so."

Philippines frowns back at Japan. "I just want what's best for my friend."

Japan nods. "I know, Philippines-kun. I know you find me a trustworthy friend, but I don't see it."

"Well, because you're an oblivious person."

Japan smiles. "Technically, I am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, i do not have any ill will towards the ships of sunshine harem, i just feel like it's too overused for now. yes, i do have some ships that don't make sense -RusAme and JapanChina- but i ship them because fuck romance tropes lmao, anyway, what i'm trying to say is that i want to convey every single popular ship into what they would actually look like in real life. this is one of them.


	16. mhm rare ships galore

America can't believe that this day had come. It was as if the deities from above granted him his wish, that he can finally spend _forever_ with someone else. He rarely even dresses to impress, even when there was a formal event. America arranges his suit at the church's mirror, trying to find any wrinkles on his suit. His brothers were cheering him on, pouring a bottle of champagne, celebrating his wedding. White flowers are hanging over the terraces of the church, white banners and stained glasses going together perfectly.

America takes off his shades, presenting his ever-blue eyes, as he fixes his blonde hair in front of the mirror. Britain had already fixed it before going to church, and they had told their son not to drive with a roofless car, but look what that had gotten him into. Bad hair day before his wedding with the love of his life; Israel.

"You look like you're going to collapse any minute, Ame", Canada says, while he was fixing his suit. "Relax, chill out."

America rolls his eyes. "I can't just _relax_ , Canada. I'm going to be married to Israel, the love of my goddamn life! But... what if it ends just like all my other relationships?"

Australia sighs from where he was fixing New Zealands hair. "Listen, mate, you two have been actin' like a married couple ever since you met each other, so I'm pretty sure, in fact, that you two are soulmates."

New Zealand scoffs. "As if soulmates are a probable excuse for marriage."

"Dude!", India says from where he was arranging the jewels on his dark hair, looking at the mirror. "Don't be suck a killjoy on America's special day. Plus, soulmates are true, y'know."

Papua New Guinea laughs as he puts a rose on his suit, admiring the way he looks on the mirror, "You just haven't found _the one_ yet, Zealand."

Monaco chuckles. "You guys are goddamn hypocrites, you haven't even had a single date, New Guinea."

Papua New Guinea sticks his tongue out in a childish manner. "Well, so do you, Monaco."

Canada shakes his head at their behavior, wondering how and why Moda manages to have raised all of their children without losing their mind. He turns his head back to America, who's sweating all over him. Yes, he really is quite paranoid at how this will all work out.

"You love Israel, right Ame?", Canada asks as he fixes America's tie.

"Yeah", America says, his voice small.

"I can't hear you; you love Israel, amiright?"

America's eyebrows furrow, as the fire in his eyes return as he stands up straight and smooths his hair on the mirror. "Hell yeah! I will always love Israel to the very end!"

Canada smirks. "Now that's the spirit! Come on, the ceremony's about to start!"

America stands at the altar, followed by his brothers, then his parents, France, Britain, and Germany, who were all wearing brilliant faces. Of course they all are; their brother and son is having the happiest day of his life, a day he will never forget as it goes down to history. Then, the church's doors open as the pianist starts to play that familiar wedding tune. America tries not to drop his jaw to the ground at how stunningly beautiful Israel is.

The gown was as white as a dove, with flowers attached onto it, as if it was growing from her dress. The buquoet she was holding was full of roses, her veil inticrated with patterns about her ancient days. The rest of her dress was being hold by Saudi Arabia and United Arab Emirates, who looked happy to be here, serving their sister at a time of need. Yes, she was quite beautiful, but that was just an added bonus for America. No, the reason that America took a liking to her was her attitude and personality, and he wouldn't trade it for anybody else. Finally, she reaches the altar, and she takes America's hand. From behind that veil, he can see her smile, radiating across the entire room.

 _This is it_ , America thinks, looking at Israel's gloved hands. To think that America would actually get _married_ someday was an absolute nightmare to think about during the younger days; he swore to himself to never be bonded with another soul, choosing to love and be loved with others, no matter how heartbreaking it is when he has to break up with the person whom he thought he loves. America was just a naïve person back then, back before he had met Israel and decided to make steady relations with her. Yes, marriage was beautiful, the final piece of love's game that can only be obtained once they have enough to go by.

Marriage truly means something beautiful to blossom out, means that everyday from now on, he will be spending time with Israel in complete bliss, in their own little world where even a piercing word couldn't pierce their hearts because they're _married_ and now they're going to be happy, happy together.

America takes the veil off Israel, and he is met with a beautiful face smiling right back at him, her bright blue eyes glinting with excitement, her dark hair styled into beautiful curls. Israel is quite a natural beauty, if America thinks so himself.

The priest turns to Israel, "Israel, will you take America as your loving spouse?"

Israel nods. "I do."

The priest turns to America, and his heart beats faster, knowing what will come next, "America, will you take Israel as your loving spouse?"

America didn't hesitate to say yes, as he eagerly kisses Israel on the lips, her soft and rich lips, as everyone else cheers for them. Canada gives them the golden rings, with their signatures on it, and they wear and show it proudly towards the onlookers, who applaud in joy.

They're going to live forever, and absolutely no one is going to stop them.

* * *

Philippines takes one glass of champagne from the worker, as he observes the crowd, looking for someone whom he can entertain himself. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk, no, his comrades advised him that if he wants to get away from Spain, he can always do it in Britain's lands. Philippines was itching underneath the suit, wanting to be free of its tight bonds. He should have worn his barong, but people would suspect him as some Filipino nationalist. Which he is, as he watches himself on the glass of his champagne.

He has been rid of his originality from the world, replaced with ideas from the west, as if he was their perfect little doll. He was just like this glass; whole, yet transparent, as he lets Spain takes his heart and shatter him from the inside, and put him back together again, the mangled pieces trying to hold on together as the other pieces are still on the floor, ignored.

Yes, he was just like this glass.

"Young man, are you going to dance, or what?", a woman clad in beautiful clothes asks him in an Irish accent. She had curly ginger hair and emerald green eyes, her freckles dancing around her face, as she looks up at Philippines.

"Um, I was looking for a dance partner, m'lady", Philippines replies, realizing that his English is just as hard as his Spanish.

She chuckles, as she holds Philippines' hand. "Well, I think you found one now. My name is Josephine."

Philippines nods as he, by no choice, follows Josephine to the dance floor. "My name is Jose."

Josephine giggles as she locks her arms with Philippines, as they waltz through the dance floor. "What a nice name."

Philippines smiles at her. "Yours is also a beautiful name, m'lady."

The violins start to play, and Philippines and Josephine start to dance and sway in a slow motion, trying to balance each other out. Philippines can't stop looking at her; he was always captivated by foreigners' beauty, and it was his first time seeing an Irish woman. He looks at her emerald eyes, seeing jewels and gemstones, as if no miner has ever set foot onto her jewel mines. Philippines smiles at Josephine as she twirls her around the dance floor, and catches her as the music stops.

"You are quite a good dancer, Jose", she says with a chuckle.

Philippines smiles, "Thank you, m'lady."

Josephine gets up, as the party starts over again. "Do you want to come by my place? I wish to know my dance partner more."

Philippines nods. "Of course, Josephine."

Josephine's house was quite large, just like the gobernor-heneral's house from back home. It had a beautiful design, a fountain spewing out liquid from a small statue, the bushes cut into perfect neat squares, and the pathway full of cobble stones. It seems to have rained a while ago due to the wetness of the path and the smell of humid air from above him. He follows Josephine into her home, which was also quite massive and full of grandeur in the inside. There were two comfortable chairs with cushions, right near the fire place, which was crackling with life.

"Do you want a drink?", Josephine asks Philippines.

"Oh, no thank you", Philippines declines as he looks back at her, "I've had enough champagne for one night."

Josephine chuckles. "Of course, make yourself at home as I make myself a drink." She disappears into whatever room is behind that door, knowing that Philippines doesn't trust himself with looking for her without getting lost. That's what his whole revolution is; a puzzle, a maze that Spain can lose himself someday until he finally gives up and leaves his land.

Philippines sits down on one of the chairs, feeling warmth inside of him as the fires continued to crackle. It was just this moment that Josephine came back, but it was technically _not_ Josephine. He was looking at the embodiment of the country of Ireland, who was wearing Josephine's clothes. It didn't take Philippines a second for him to put two and two together, and he sighs to himself.

"I just danced with Ireland, didn't I?", he says.

Ireland smiles, as she makes her way towards Philippines while holding a glass of wine on her hand. "I wouldn't be here showing myself to you, wouldn't I, _Jose_?"

" _Josephine_ ", Philippines says, rolling his eyes, "I presume you know who I am?"

"Of course I know who you are; us countries know if one person is a country." Ireland leans onto Philippines, making the other uncomfortable. "So why didn't you sense me?" Ireland shrugs. "Or are you that oblivious, _Philippines_?"

He shrugs. "I'm more of a 'surprise me' kind of guy."

"Well, for the looks of it, you are, which gives me a reason to do this." Ireland locks her lips with Philippines, and he thinks of two things; one, he's still in his human form while kissing a sperical head whose flag is embedded onto her skin; and two, he's liking the goddamn kiss. Ireland breaks the kiss as she looks at Philippines with something unidentifiable in her eyes. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Of course I did." Philippines takes the glass of wine from Ireland's hands and takes a sip of it. "Though I'm not interested on bed-on-bed action."

Ireland scowls into her drink, and she drinks the remainder of the wine. "No country likes bed-on-bed action, dear."

"Spain does."

"He's one of those disgusting countries that like sexual intimacy", Ireland replies as she snakes her arms around Philippines. "Most of us do not."

Philippines tsks as he kisses Ireland's cheek, sharing the warmth all around her. The feeling inside of him was not out of fear due to how close they are, but due to affection.

* * *

Japan Empire looks at the blue prints that Britain oh-so-generously gave him. The man has quite the taste for inventing new things for the better. No wonder they made an alliance with each other to fend off those dirty Russians from China. Russia had Japan Empire shaking, almost falling to his knees as Russia walks around him.

Britain, from what he has seen of him before getting to know the man, was that he was quite obsessed with tea and is all about keeping appearances. He was taller than Imperial, due to the many territories he still has control over. When they had made an alliance, it was like the tense atmosphere from around them broke to a thousand pieces. They had gotten to know each other quite well, and even exchanged a few words about their past.

Japan may have ill will towards those damn Westerners, but they sure have technology that can make his Asian Empire a dream come true. The door opens, and in came Britain, wearing a military uniform. Japan raises a brow at Britain's sweat-stricken face.

"How have you been, Great Britain?", Japan asks, going to the kitchen to prepare their tea, "and why the long face?"

Britain lets out a gruff sigh as he sits on the chair right next to Japan's. "It is nothing. It is just the goddamn war happening in Europe."

Japan sighs as he takes two teabags from the cupboards and places them onto two teacups. He pours water onto the teapot and places it on the stove. He walks over to where Britain is sitting and starts to rub his back, like the good ally he is.

"Mother Europe always has to deal with your bullshit", Japan says. "What is it this time?"

"It is just Reich and Austria-Hungary. I wouldn't care less for Austria-Hungary but Reich is a brilliant and cunning country. His colonies in Asia must stop aiding him."

Japan smirks to himself, an idea forming around his head. "Germany has colonies in Asia, you say?"

Britain nods, but before he could utter a single sentence, the teapot starts to release an ear-splitting scream. Japan gets up and turns the stove off, pouring water over the two cups. He takes a container full of sugar and a tea spoon.

"Do you want sugar on your tea?", Japan asks.

Britain nods. "Just a tea spoon is fine."

Japan puts one tea spoon of sugar onto Britain's tea, and two tea spoons on his. He serves Britain tea as he looks over at the map Britain had spread out while he was mixing their beverage. Germany's colonies are just right over China and islands near Japan; he could take it and claim it as his own.

"It is only a few miles away from my country", Japan says, looking at the colonies in hunger. "I can... _occupy_ it for you while Germany is off losing more lands in Europe."

Britain looks at the colonies, then back at Japan, and the empire could not wait until Britain steals his idea and tell him that he has the permission to occupy those lands. Britain nods, sipping his tea in consideration.

"You may occupy those islands, only _temporarily_ ", Britain replies, and Japan raises a brow. He'd do anything to have those islands, and he can charm his way right through the other's heart to have it. "We need to make a unanimous voting if, we win, and make treaties."

"I do not oppose to your decisions, Great Britain", Japan says, "but I do wish to have Germany's colonies."

Britain looks at him in suspicion. "You might take our colonies next, Japan; do not think I do not know the plan forming around your head."

Japan laughs, "I will not disturb your or France's colonies." _In the meantime._ "I promise."

Britain sighs, standing up and rearranging his uniform. "Well, in that case, I give you my permission to colonize Germany's colonies. I have a destiny to fulfill."

"And that's probably to destroy the German Empire once and for all." Japan didn't have time to tell Britain as Britain leaves, leaving his cup of tea on the floor. Japan sighs, picking it up and putting it on the sink. The dishes can wait, because right now, he has plans to make.

* * *

"Germany!", France's sweet voice calls over to the man clad in work clothes, who was busy talking to Hungary, "come over here!"

Germany sighs, dismissing Hungary as he makes his way towards both France and Britain, who are cuddling together in the cold winter, right next to the fireplace.

"What is it?", Germany asks as he fixes his glasses. "I was going around asking everyone about the cold."

"Are you cold, love?", Britain asks, patting a seat from beside them. "Because we've got space for one more."

Germany sighs, his face tinged with a light pink. "I am not cold, but thank you for the offer, France, Britain."

France rolls her eyes. "Bullshit. Come right here and sit with us. Don't think I can see your hands shivering."

Germany rolls his eyes. "Fine, you got me there, let me just give you two a cup of hot chocolate from the shops."

"Sure, but you have to come back to us."

Germany nods. "Right, right, I know you two." He stalks off to another direction as he heads down the stairs to find some shops with hot chocolate in their orders. He finds one, and he orders three cups, waiting for his order to be fulfilled.

It is quite peculiar and strange, to be in a relationship- no, _married_ to two people at once. He feels the Braille on his rings, the names of his spouses written on it. He is quite happy with his life now, since everything is going fine and nothing is going wrong. He loves Britain and France, he really does. Germany can feel their sweet kisses on his back, his face, his arms, on his chest, and waking up every morning with warm bodies pressed along his. It was a beautiful feeling, something he hopes will last.

Germany pays the seller the needed amount as he goes back to the floor where everyone is huddled up. His hands were shaking from the cold, and he tries to keep himself warm with the hot chocolate pressed against his skin. He finally reaches Britain and France, who are holding hands, trying to give each other warmth.

"Here is your hot chocolate", Germany says, and France and Britain kiss him on both cheeks, making him warmer.

"Come sit with us now, mon amour", France says. "Please?"

Germany smiles, as he sits down right between them both, sharing the blankets they have given him. He takes a sip of his hot choco, and he feels happy.

* * *

Sweden waits for his plane to land, his hands on his pockets. He looks out to the brand new world that Asia will give him. It was less cold and warmer in this continent than in Europe, but he could manage. After all, he needs a vacation after being turned down by Åaland for the umpteenth time. Well, he lost count.

He remembered the times he's had dinner with the girl, she was quite innocent back in the days Sweden was some sort of large empire. She was taken away, and Sweden tried desperately to get her back, but in the end, she's with Finland now. Sweden grips the handrest. At least he treats Åaland quite well.

Åaland was a part of him, metaphysically and spiritually, and to finally find that bond broken was disheartening to him; what he thought was his soulmate had taken interest onto another person.

The plane finally lands, and Sweden gets up to decide which country he should visit first. He takes out his map from his pocket, trying to find which country he had landed on- he was in Thailand, and from in front of him, standing on the stage, he sees the familiar spherical head shape and his flag.

Sweden has never really approached Thailand on any United Nations meeting, but it seems that he needs a tour guide all over Thailand. Sweden taps on his shoulder, and Thailand turns around with a confused look.

"Um, hello", Thailand says softly, still confused. "What do you want, Mister...?"

"Sweden, just call me Sweden", the Scandinavian country replies. "You're Thailand, yes?"

Thailand nods. "Yes. Are you lost? Do you need my help, Sweden?"

"Oh, yeah", Sweden shows the map to Thailand. "I was wondering where the closest hotel is."

Thailand's eyes light up, "Oh, the nearest hotel to the airport is just a car drive away! Come on, I'll take you there."

"But... what about the other tourists? I appreciate your help, Thailand, I really do, but others need your help more than me."

Thailand shakes his head, a smile on his face. "Nonsense, I'll just ask my workers to cover for me- after all, I don't want to dissatisfy an embodiment of a country."

Sweden slowly nods. "Alright, lead the way."

Thailand guides Sweden to the parking lot, and Thailand finds his car admist all the other vehicles, particularly due to the car appearing nationalistic: its tires are painted with the colors of his flag, the insides are full of decorations regarding the history of Thailand, and the color of his car is also the same colors as his flag. Thailand unlocks the car as he opens the trunk and ushers Sweden to put his luggage inside of it. Sweden sits on the passenger seat as Thailand sits on the driver's seat, starting the car.

Sweden looks out of the door, as he finds the beauty in Thailand's country. He stares in awe at the buildings and the nature surrounding them, as Thailand busily drives and hums a song under his breath. Sweden wonders if Thailand had found his soulmate, due to him humming a love song. Sweden just takes his phone out and texts Denmark and Norway, telling them that he was in Thailand.

****

****

Sweden just _couldn't_ help it, as he types the first thing that crosses his mind.

****

****

Sweden rolls his eyes. He wasn't even surprised that his friends start to bet on him.

Sweden looks at Thailand, then back at the sceneries that were unfolding in front of him. Thailand may not be the most beautiful country, but he sure had sewn his way to Sweden's heart, and _that_ quick as well.

* * *

Finland gives Åaland a bowl of cereal, much to the girl's chagrin. She loves Finland, she really does, way more than Sweden, that lying bastard. She was keeping herself in his clutches as thanks for helping her win the war against the Soviet Union in the Second World War. She just can't stand the thought of Finland drinking himself to death.

Happiest country in the world her ass. There is nothing happy about the world they are both living in.

Åaland takes a bite of her cereal, and from the corner of her eye, she sees Finland fixing himself on the mirror. She sighs.

"What, you're going to go to one of those illegal strip clubs with Estonia again?", Åaland asks, tired of being stepped over.

Finland lets out an annoyed sigh. "I never go to strip clubs Åaland. I hate strip clubs."

"But you're planning on cheating on me." Åaland tries to hide the tears forming on her eyes. "Damn it, Finland, we were supposed to be inseparable. We were inseparable after the Russian Empire took us away from Sweden."

Finland laughs, an ugly yet menacing laugh. "You sound like you _want_ to separate from Sweden since first day, which you don't. Whatever, Åaland, you're not stopping me." Finland closes the door from behind him.

Åaland lets out a scream in frustration, as she throws her bowl of cereal at the door, and stomps her way up the stairs, closing the door with a slam. She wipes the tears on her eyes, as she takes her phone out and looks through her social medias. She hears the doorbell ring, and she supposes that it was the mailman. She gets up from her bed to see if she can read any letters that Sweden sent to turn her sadness to anger.

There was, but it wasn't one out of love; it was of an invitation.

**Finland and Åaland, you are invited to me and Thailand's wedding!**

Åaland drops the envelope in shock; when did Sweden get engaged? When did Sweden even meet Thailand? He's been sending her letters every single day, unless-

Åaland's eyes widen, as she takes the envelope from the ground, trying to not crumple it in the process.

 _He was trying to spite her._ Åaland laughs, because that won't work, and that the others didn't have the same invitation as hers-

"Oh, Åaland!", Norway waves at her, holding an envelope of his own. "Are you coming to the wedding?"

Yes, it was from spite, but it seems that the wedding was actually true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- AmeIsra is one of my ships, not my favorite, but definitely a top tier.  
> \- the idea of the Philippines/Ireland ship is from rheycah on Tumblr. i love it, and i decided to work with it!  
> \- "Britain and Japan became allies so together they can be less scared of Russia" -what I remember Bill Wurtz say from history of japan  
> \- more Germany/UK/France? more Germany/UK/France.  
> \- gathered the Åaland/Sweden lore from countryballs. it was a really cool episode.


	17. no time to be sad, be happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> most of my [headcannons](https://countryhumansmisc.tumblr.com/) becoming mostly canon

Korea takes time, to make their tea, as both of their sides bicker and fight again. Their right side burns, as they look at their decayed hand in left. It was flesh and bones, the ugly patchwork of skin trying to attack itself as they attack it everyday, trying to scratch it out, because it's _so_ goddamn annoying to feel something at the back of their decaying skin. Their exposed bones are crumbling; sooner or later, it will turn to dust, and North will be no more.

Korea sighs to themselves, as they look in the mirror to see what _monstrosity_ they have become. Their right side was full of life, soft and light skin, clad in a jacket and half a headphone, a crown of blonde hair on the top of their head, lively dark blue eyes. His name is South, and people usually feel drawn to him, because, well, he is pretty. He will charm everyone with his good looks without turning around. Yes, they were like the planet Venus; beautiful, charming, alluring on the outside, as they lure the scientists and astronomers in, and then once they look at Venus on a telescope, she becomes a nightmare- a swirling, erupting evil, clawing through her skin as she tries to destroy her own planet.

North Korea was cursed to become a creature that most likely lives in the dark, being forced to starve in the clutches of the Soviet Union and spat out back into the world, a changed person. Korea looks through his memories, and what they see isn't pretty. North Korea's delicate and fine skin has been made rough by Soviet's many trials as he strives for freedom, but in the end, he gets less than what he bargained for.

To be left at the dust, his blue wounds turning purple, as if the only objective in his life was to die as he crawls into concentration camps for a living, as he unconciously slips away from his much younger appearance, not sensing the smell of his own skin decaying, of him _dying_ and becoming something else, something monstrous that only the most courageous people can come near him.

His hair - well, what's left of it - are stringy and weak, black with strands of white hair whipping all around North's half of Korea's scalp. His youthful face is replaced with an unrelenting disgusting face- one of a decaying corpse dying in the mountainous regions, left frozen to death. What's left of his face was a skull, his eye socket glowing a blue tinge, and his body full of patches of skin.

Korea sighs, as they sip their tea, flinching as the hot beverage hits North Korea's decaying throat, and he screams, something that is quite mundane in the household to the point Korea and South don't seem to care anymore.

* * *

America looks at himself in the mirror, as he changes into a blonde haired man with a soldier's cut, as his physique turns to something similar to a person who works out at the gym, and he smiles at himself in the mirror, loving the way he changed his appearance. He has always wanted to reshape his bones and familiar structure, daring to go wild with his imagination. He puts his coat on as he hears someone call his name from below.

He opens the door, to find a lone person leaning on one of the posts, their arms crossed. They were wearing baggy street pants and an oversized shirt, their hair a messy red medium. They look at America with a smirk and approach him.

"Hey, 愛", Japan says, as they kiss America's cheek. "私たちは今向かっていますか？"

"Yeah, yeah", America replies, scratching his head. "You're driving, right?"

Japan shrugs. "I mean, I brought the bike, so of course."

America chuckles and kisses Japan on the lips. "Then let's go."

* * *

"Guten tag, Japan", Germany says as he sits next to Japan, who was busily modelling a brand new project. "How is your day?"

"Oh, I'm fine", they reply as they type in more and more words into their laptop, until their hands start to shake. "It's just that this building project is killing me."

"And your hands, from the looks of it", Germany points out, looking at Japan's shaking hands.

Japan sighs, their brown eyes focused on the model right in front of them. "I'm fine, Germany. I'm just tired."

"Aren't we all? But still, you need to rest your hands, Japan. Carpal Tunnel Syndrome is fucked up."

"私の手は、病気であっても、この仕事、ドイツを取ることができます."

Japan was lying. It was like their hands are playing against them, as they ache more and more, shake like there was an earthquake, and their tapping becomes increasingly more and more noisier, to the point where Japan, sighing, closes their laptop and holds their hands together, trying to settle in the throbbing pain. Germany sighs, as he scoots closer to Japan, who was now at the brink of crying. How can they live on with mangled hands that won't do anything for them? What if they can't be cured of it? Their people rely on them, and they rely on their _hands_ to make the work easier on them. It was like their hands were run over a bus and are now helpless.

"Hey, Japan. Breathe, we can get through this."

"Y-you say that like you're convincing yourself."

Germany sighs. "I am. I'm getting better- no, _we're_ getting better. Why don't I massage your hands for you? I mean, it wouldn't get rid of your pain, but it might help you relax?"

Japan nods. "S-sure."

* * *

Britain, at the dead of the night, comes back from one of their fights, bruised and bloodied. Those damn warriors in Rome don't have a respect for the royal family, and Britain had showed them all who was boss. They limp towards the gardens, panting excessively whilst holding their wounded stomach, the stab wound hurting too much to even let go a single bit. If they unfuse, they will all have to share the burned they've created tonight, but it was much better hiding it on plain sight. After all, they didn't plan on telling their father the nightly escapades they have.

Hiding behind one of the pillars, they decide it was finally time to unfuse. The fission was like waters, waves, crashing roughly on to the shore, but after a split second, they gently retract back to the sea, seeming like they regret the action, but comes back again, harder and more relentlessly this time.

They split off to five teenagers, in the rough palms of the all-mighty and strict Rome. England was the first to get up; he always is, as he was the one who proposed the whole idea of nights of revelry and rough-housing, and the others are just bandwagons to it all.

"Rome is going to fall soon", England says, looking at the stars.

"We know", Wales replies with a sigh. "We were with you as we looked at the walls."

"The barbarians will be coming", England says with a smile. "I hope they sack this city and burn everything."

Britain is looking around for someone, as they enter the European Union building. Then, they see her; their mother, their mother figure for a thousand years. They stare at her, as she converses with her boyfriend, Spain, and Britain can't help but feel like they're missing their parent, the one who has raised them.

Italy- no Rome.

* * *

"Gago ka, Espanya!", Philippines says to the country clad in a leather jacket. Spain glares back at him, understanding little of his sentence.

"Follarte tambien", Spain replies.

Japan and North Korea are glaring at each other. Japan scoffs at the smaller country, their kimono covering the sword they're hiding underneath. This country has brought nothing but dishonor to their family, and now he's going to try and take on Japan? Shame on them, really.

"아, 봐, 베타 중국." Japan scoffs- they may not understand what North is saying, but they know that phrase all too well.

"ああ、私のアマテラス、韓国だけど共産主義者だ" Japan smiles as they and North Korea continue their name calling.

"Je t'aime, la bretagne", France says as he snuggles close to Britain. Britain's cheeks redden- they may not understand France, but they're pretty sure that he said _'I love you'_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, i Google translated some stuff, feel free to correct me!  
> hey, thanks for reading! comments and kudos are appreciated :)


	18. his lives are one, his lives are fragments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Germany's lives, but not in order, and in little fragments.

The soft, pale moonlight shines upon the windows, illuminating the feathery wings of the Holy Roman Empire, who was kneeling down, muttering a prayer, the words silver, precious and redundant on his tongue. He kneels on the hard ground, tolerating the pain it makes his knees go through, the strain on his legs whenever he stands up. He's trying not to stumble, not in front of Mother Mary, the mother of Jesus. He communicates with the Blessed Virgin, to bless his triumphs over those Franks and Brits, anything so he can take Mother Mary, Jesus and God.

He makes the sign of the cross, signalling the end of the prayer, and he stands, stumbling, getting balance from one of the pyres. He sighs to himself, as he unfolds his wings to its glory, a gift from God that he will forever cherish. Such a beautiful masterpiece shall not be tinged with dirt. Holy Roman Empire was sure that God had crafted it with his own hands, making the clay model first, the shape of a heart, then plucking angels' wings to finally create the perfect wings for his Earthly successor. He can just _feel_ God's palms, his hands, caressing his wings, and the illusion enamours him.

Holy Roman Empire walks off from the chapel, a newly made man, and he clasps his hands towards his palms as he walks back to his castle, to where he sits on his newly found throne, made from the gold underground, the cushions comfortable under him as he refills his wine glass with more wine, to celebrate his achievements.

Holy Roman Empire usually parties to forget the insults being blasted at him, like guns and pistols and ships bombarding him with whatever they have, their words sharp thorns to his side; he is the hand, his soft skin trying to pick the rose, but yet, the rose's stems have thorns and it pricks him, making him retract his hand as he tends to the wound.

_Byzantine smiles at the hurt Holy Roman Empire, who was curled onto the ground, his wings curled around him to protect the man from the onslaught. Byzantine Empire wears a beautiful golden cloak, his crown styled just like a Roman Emperor, back in the old days; but they both know they aren't Rome, they aren't him; they are just technical embodiment of the old Empire, impostors in their own right._

_"You're not the real Roman Empire", Byzantine says, landing a kick onto the wings. His wings give in, and it uncurls around the Holy being. Byzantine spits on Holy Roman's face, "you're just a Christianized Scandinavian."_

_Holy Roman Empire kicks one of Byzantine's legs, making the other stumble. "Neither are you- you're a **Graecus**._

_Byzantine punches Holy Roman's face. "Shut the fuck up!"_

Holy Roman Empire smiles to himself. He may be an impostor, but at least he is doing his job perfectly.

* * *

Germany can feel the soldiers' fingertips digging in to his arms and legs, carrying him off the ground from where he was humiliated and blinded, the only thing he can see now is darkness, from where ever he goes. He feels the pain from where they have taken his eyes, the scar of the sword still imminent and obvious on his face. He wonders what they're going to do to him, they've already humiliated and blinded him- what else?

He wonders what he did in the past to give himself this position. It was quite clear he did something cruel- the looks of fear from some countries are enough- and something scandalous, to the point that all the other countries present were looking at him with anger, with fire blazing in their eyes. They scowl, they laugh at his misfortunes.

Germany had only been in Berlin for a short while, after waking up in a pile full of ashes, soldiers crowded right in front of him, guns pointed right at him, and he is _so_ confused to the point where he asks one of the soldiers a question, and gets a hit from the handle of the gun in return.

Everything in his body is in pain, especially his arms and legs. These soldiers must hate him, since he can feel blood being drawn out from his arms. Germany's trembling, his heart beating fast as they stop in front of something; it must be something, but he doesn't know what. A door, perhaps?

Then, without waiting for Germany to prepare himself, he is thrown into the room, his bones probably breaking from the fall, but all he can feel is pain flaring up on his shoulder- he must have dislocated something. Germany stumbles around, knowing that it was his chance to break free and escape, but the soldiers lock the door before he can even make a circle with how fast he was going.

In the end, he only feels smooth concrete, and he leans back onto it as he screams.

* * *

Weimar has no idea how he's going to live in peace, with the focus of being _humiliated_ to the point where he collapses, and he's replaced with... well, _himself_. He sighs, running a hand towards his smooth hair as he steps onto the entrance of the office, knowing full well he is going to receive jeers from his co-workers, about his losing in the Great War.

Expectantly, he receives the jeers, but he manages to go around it by now, them becoming a straining whirlpool in which he learns how to deflect and turn his ship around, unlike what the Titanic did in 1912; is sank in a cold, winter night, loneliness prevailing the ones aboard the ship. He sighs to himself as he sits back behind his cubicle, writing and closing his eyes, letting the sounds drown out, enjoying the sweet apathy in his life.

* * *

East Germany, with all his might, tries to break the wall down with only his hands. He pounds, screams, and punches at the walls until his knuckles were bruised and bloody, hands broken, mangled into becoming whatever it is right now. He cries, he shrieks, even his people try to climb the wall, only to be shot down by any soldier. He knows it's a death wish, to climb over a wall he couldn't see, but he is _desperate_ to get back to West, god fucking damn it.

So he breathes, in and out, in and out, to ready himself as he does the unthinkable. He walks backwards, raising the suspicions of the soldiers surrounding the Berlin wall, and then, he runs. Not with remarkable speed, something just average, as he feels the wind breeze around him as he runs towards the wall and starts to hold onto it, gritting his teeth as he tries to climb the hideous concrete separating him and West.

The last thing he can feel is the overwhelming pain on his back, before his mangled hands slip from where he was gripping the wall and fall into the hard asphalt road.

* * *

The Second German Empire looks back at his flailing allies, the gun he is gripping slipping from his grasp, as Austria-Hungary, his one and only companion, the only one who understands him, the one who shares his secrets, is now on the ground, shielding himself. Reich runs towards him, throwing his gun towards one of his soldiers, not caring about the mines embedded deep underground, ready for him to step over them and trigger it.

Reich reaches Austria-Hungary, cautiously touching his back, feeling the way he shakes, and he feels so goddamn sorry at him, at their whole predicament. He sighs to himself- his people will know that he had lied, that they weren't winning, that this wasn't a victory for the Germans. Reich knows that Austria-Hungary is blind, and he starts to comfort him, by talking to him, touching him in the battlefield, where it was meant for _war_ , not whatever this bullshit is.

"I'm here", Reich says, "you're safe."

He wonders for how long.

* * *

Prussia walks towards Austria, trying to give off his confidence and charm, as he is now faced with an enemy he oh-so wanted to end. Prussia smiles at Austria, who was in defensive position- they had been doing this ever since the Seven Years War started, when France and Britain's little squabble has turned into something notably larger. It became a playground for the other empires as they try and scramble towards more land to see who is solely larger.

"So, who do you think is the winner of this round?", Prussia asks, as he and Austria confront one another for the final battle, "me, or _you_?"

Austria laughs. "You make it sound like me winning is impossible."

Prussia raises a brow. "That's because it is."

* * *

Weimar leaves his work early, his headache getting worse and worse. It was like someone was kicking at his skull, screaming to let him out of his ugly workings of a brain. He stumbles, he falls, he tries to stand, his hands shaking as he does so. He feels like emptying out his empty stomach for the umpteenth time this week- he wonders if the headaches he's now having is due to too much drugs in his system, and it's coming back to bite him.

Weimar calls for a taxi, stuttering out his address as he rubs his forehead, closing his eyes, trying to ease the pain. His legs goes slack, as he feels himself drifting away from consciousness. Then he feels his headache getting rid of, as if someone washes his burdens and the weight of his shoulders away, like a tidal wave coming in towards the shore in a gentle brush.

Then, he opens his eyes, his hands feeling wet, as if he had dipped his hands inside a bowl of water. Weimar looks down.

It wasn't water.

Crimson red is the only thing he sees in the automobile- in the windows, on his clothes, on the seats, and, most importantly, along the driver's body. Weimar vomits a pile of bile into his seat, as he struggles to get out of the automobile, wanting to get rid of the horrifying image burned through the back of his mind- his bloody hands, the bile, and the lifeless eyes of the cab driver, who hadn't seen the murder coming.

Weimar stumbles into his home, then immediately goes to the bathroom, to vomit more bile on the toilet as his family hears his ruckus and starts to head down the steps from their rooms. He gets up from where he was choking on his undigested remains and lock the bathroom's door- he didn't need his children to see blood and think of what he has done.

What _has_ he done?

He can't quite remember, as another headache comes in, this time stronger than before.

* * *

Germany runs, as he is being chased by the soldiers that have come to get him, come to destroy and kill him, mangle his corpse until it is nothing but dirt on the ground. He can feel himself getting smaller, as his territories start to dwindle, and he can feel himself slipping away from time itself. The only thing he can, _must_ do now, is to defend Berlin before its fall.

His men drop dead on the ground, just like flies, trying to protect their one leader, the king of all Europe who had lead them all to enlightenment.

Germany reaches his house just in time, as he can hear the gun shots getting louder, and nearer every so often. He breathes in and out, as he sighs in relief.

"Not so fast."

Germany jumps as he hears the click of a gun, and he takes his gun from one of his pockets and turns around to point it at the perpatrator. But all he finds is Weirmar, struggling to stand up, holding a gun in his right hand. Germany laughs at his brother's display of intimidation, but Weimar still tries to shoot Germany, only hitting the door.

"Who let you out of the cage, mein brother?", Germany asks, glee evident on his voice.

"It's a secret." Weimar shoots again, and he only misses an inch; Germany's hearing is suddenly lost, but that's not a problem in his case. That always happens in war, as natural sounds are replaced with this ringing in his head. He sees Weimar approaching him, and Germany aims for Weimar's head.

The last thing he feels before collapsing to the harsh ground is Weimar's hand entangling with his; even in death, they are cursed to still be together.

* * *

Germany holds European Union's hand, his child's hands shaking as the elevator goes up, feeling as if it was a space ship from one of those Star Wars lore, being taken and put into this closed silver space. Germany can also feel himself suffocating, remembering the times he had been imprisoned back in the days.

"It'll be fine, you'll be just helping me run the company", Germany says, trying to calm EU down. "Everyone will like you."

European Union nods, still silent. The elevator lets out a _ding_ as it stops, and the elevator doors open. They both quietly step inside as the other Europeans start to greet them.

"Hey Germany!", Germany recognizes the voice- it was Belgium's. She puts her arms around Germany, and he smiles. "Who's the guy?"

"Oh, this is European Union, my son", Germany says.

"So, they're a national organization?", France asks.

"Yes, I decided to let him help me man our business company, only for a little while."

"Well, I do hope European Union stays around for a while. I wish to get to know him more!" Britain's voice echoes through Germany's ears.

Germany smiles. "Well, I sure do as well. I would like EU to learn more about our business."

"A business in which we sell heroin", Netherlands from the back replies, and Germany sighs.

"You shouldn't've told him that."

"So, you guys _do_ sell drugs?", EU asks.

"Yes, but it is an... _underground_ business." Germany tugs on European Union's hand, wanting to show him the whole office.

* * *

Holy Roman Empire sighs, as he looks at the feuding kingdoms of England and France, fighting for France's territory. These two do nothing but hate each other, and he watches them from the sidelines. He may be England's ally, but he wasn't interested in their fight- rather, he was interested on the money England has given him to ensure that, they are, in fact, allies.

He looks over to another kingdom, one that has risen from its death, one that has Rome's capital city.

Italy was quite a charming man, his charismatic smile and strut winning him over the countries, and Holy Roman Empire wonders, if Italy ever sees him as an imposter. Byzantine does, France does, England does. Italy has never had uttered a word at the empire, but he still feels like he doesn't deserve the name _'Roman'_ , it was never his, it was a borrowed name after the fallen empire is now spread down below the ground.

Holy Roman Empire sighs, looking at the white clouds, into the blue skies, where God is said - _no_ \- lives. He wonders if he had always been an imposter, a taker of a name that was never related to his.

He's just an identity taker, and Italy is here to try and take back what was his.

* * *

The clay figures dancing around the dim light fascinates Prussia, as he plays with them more than once. It was figures from his old days, back when he was a promising empire, full of desire, borrowing a certain Mediterranean empire's name. He presses one of them, enjoying its soft clay-like figure being squashed until it is a flat little _thing_ at the table, no longer representing a human being.

Prussia wants to do that to the others, paranoid at the vision of them thwarting his plan to conquer more land- they do that too, so _why_ restrict _him_? At least he and the Russian Empire are trying to split the Polish Lithuanian Commonwealth. It'd be much better if it ceased to exist.

Prussia presses down another clay figure, liking its soft texture against his rough hands, smiling as it goes down once again. It was like a person being crushed by a boulder, but instead of an immediate death, it is slower, so he gets to feel his bones being crushed, the pain on every part of his body being too much to handle as he bleeds out.

* * *

Reich looks at Austria-Hungary, who was looking at the map. He has been reading too much into the geographics, after what Serbia did to Austria-Hungary's archduke. Reich sighs. He places a hand on his comrade's shoulder.

"Whatever will happen, I'm with you 'til the end of the line", Reich says, and Austria-Hungary smiles back at him. He may not see it, but Reich is smiling as well.

To have the person you love the most being torn away, is, one of the most painful things that Reich has ever witnessed. He watches his love, kicking and screaming, as their enemies drag him away from Reich. Reich doesn't want to scream, doesn't want anyone to know how taking Austria-Hungary away from him is his _weakness_. So, he watches Austria-Hungary being split in half, just like that, into two perfect strangers.

When he is thrown into his cell, however, he screams.

* * *

Weimar and Germany look at each other, one of hostility painted on his face, one of sheer malice on the other. Their children were watching from behind them, ready to shoot Germany in the head once he gets the upper hand of the situation.

"Look- hear me out."

"I'm not listening."

"You want revenge against those goddamn Allies, right?"

"I'm _not_ dragging myself to another war again."

"C'mon, I promise we'll win."

"That was what I said to my people, to let them continue this blood fest."

"But really, we will _win_."

"Or we'll lose, and I can't take anymore consequences."

"We will not lose! I will bring Germany back to its glory days! You will all see!"

"I-I can't." Weimar looks down at the ground. "I can't live like this. Not again."

"We _will_ prevail!"

"No we won't." Weimar's voice is softer this time, and Germany decides that that sign means he gets to take the reins of the horses, once and for all.

* * *

West looks at the Berlin Wall, one dividing, _depriving_ him of his brother. He sighs. He wants to feel him again, wants to hear his voice clearly for the first time in years before this fucking wall tore them both apart. He curses the Soviet Union, and he curses himself for whatever he has done in the past for them both to deserve this.

He wants to be whole again, wants to be a whole soul, wants East to be a part of him once again. It was a dream, a dream that might never reach the heaven's prayers. West sighs, and tries to stumble back home, cane in his hand. The wall was something that he couldn't see, yes, but he could feel its concrete, he could feel how much pain it causes the Germans in the other side.

* * *

Germany reads his book with his fingers, closing his eyes, not needing them since he technically can't see. He can feel another warmth pressing on his side, and he smiles a bit. Germany feels the other hug his torso, yawning, and he feels him getting up.

"Guten morgen, Polen", Germany says with a sweet smile on his face. Poland kisses Germany's cheek.

"Mornin' to you too", Poland replies, getting off the bed, "I'll cook breakfast for both of us."

Germany closes his book, getting up as well. "Let me help you, then."


	19. what if… German Empire… didn’t die after the Great War… and witnesses Weimar succeeding him and trying to restore their nation… but after too much pressure snaps and becomes TR. haha… just kidding… UNLESS???

The first day after the Great War, things have turned about in the household of the Germans. The Second German Empire had to be deposed, to be played with, and replaced by his firstborn son, Weimar. He loves his son, to the inferno and back, but he realizes that Weimar is not fit for ruling a war-torn Germany, especially when it is in debt and broke, the economy falling towards oblivion. The Second German Empire decides to stay and witness the Allies harrasing his son to giving them more money than he can ever make. But he didn’t interfere. He  _couldn’t_  interfere, his presence like a transparent window, always open but never closed. He lets in fresh air, his voice, to advice Weimar, but in the end he couldn’t get through him.

Since Weimar was now busy with the country’s affairs, The German Empire stays home and watches his grandsons, East and West, play with each other with the old toys German Empire had made for Weimar. He usually replaces their childish, happy faces with Weimar’s, remembering the times his son’s face was filled with delight. He rarely sees it now, often plagued with sadness, his eyes giving off a different kind of tired- sleep can’t cure the circles underneath his eyes, his posture slouched due to how much workload he receives in one day.

German Empire knows that one day, Weimar might snap, and it’d be one of the worst moments of his life, and probably the twins as well. German Empire reads a book from page-to-page, feeling its smooth paper underneath his gloved hands, and smiles, liking this kind of peace and tranquility surging through his veins.

The tranquil air around the room is suddenly stolen by a cold vibe, its claws digging through the skin of tranquility, and dragging it down below with him. Weimar slams the door open, looking out of breath, clutching his chest, red in the eyes. He was wide-eyed, his blue eyes looking every where, as if searching for something that isn’t there in their surroundings. The children drop their toys, looking worried for their father, who looked like he had seen a ghost. The Second German Empire closes his book and immediately makes his way towards his son, sweating as if his whole life depends on seeing his son bright-eyed and happy again.

“Son”, German Empire replies, trying to touch his son’s shoulders, but he ends up trying to step away from his father, limping, crawling away from him. Weimar was breathing harshly, clawing at his hair, and the Second German Empire sees a light red tint on both his son’s fingers and uniform. It could be a fluid that he had seen wildly flowing in the war fields, but he didn’t want to envision his times during the trenches again.

“Get away from me”, Weimar snarls, his voice shaky and brittle, like it was about to break any moment with a high pitched vengeance. “J-just stop tormenting me.”

Naïve, German Empire thought his beloved son was hallucinating those Allies harrasing him for money again, “I am not them. I am your father, Weimar. Please calm down, you are scaring your own children.”

Instead of snapping out of it, out of this episodic attack that will mark the first time that the Second German Empire looks at his son with fear, and the first time Weimar is plagued with a brand new character walking to their lives and destroying the next thing German Empire loves, Weimar walks towards his room, muttering something about a dead cab driver.

Second German Empire tucks East and West to sleep, kissing them both on the foreheads, like how he had watched Weimar do to them so many times. He has never done this to his child, and he can feel regret seeping in. He yawns, feeling the goddess of sleep trying to tug him down, but he decides to visit Weimar’s room, to ask about what had transpired this sunset. He knocks on his son’s door, and hears a muffled hum, thinking it was an affirmation that he can see Weimar. Second German Empire opens the door, which squeaks, but before he can utter a word towards Weimar, he sees his son snorting a gram or two of inhalants.

German Empire and Weimar lock eyes for a few seconds- German Empire’s fierce blue eyes and Weimar’s ecstasy-filled ones. German Empire’s concerned feelings towards his son gives way to anger and disappointment, as he reprimands and berates his son for such an inappropriate way of dealing with his problems. Before Weimar can respond to his father, German Empire slams the door loudly, to the point it echoes throughout the large house.

* * *

The second time it happens, German Empire is awoken in the middle of the night, by the sound of someone shattering bottles of gin in the cellar. He thinks it was one of the drunken states, getting ahold of German Empire’s beer in an effort to drown themselves from the exhausting work being given to them. German Empire, with this light assumption, goes back to seeing black again.

Then German Empire is awoken by the sound of loud footsteps, thundering throughout the house, the wooden staircases shaking and creaking underneath their footsteps. German Empire’s sharp ears hear a familiar voice, singing an old German melody, slurred. They drop the bottle of beer they were holding, near German Empire’s room, and the German curses that follow it. German Empire hears the person try pick it up, but results to more cursing in German. The man gives up on trying to pick up the shards of glass, but still stands on the middle of German Empire’s room, still singing an old melody. German Empire’s ears are ringing, and he finally leaves the sweet comfort of his bed to investigate who was outside the door.

As he opens the door, the lights go dim, and the hallways become quiet. Confused, he tries to take one step, expecting glass shards- there were none trying to puncture his skin.

In the morning, as he and Berlin make breakfast for everyone in the German household, he sees Weimar playing with his children. His sharp eyes catches the bandages around Weimar’s hands, with the a tint of the familiar red hue around it. He stares at it for a moment, but it seems to become more than a full minute as his staring becomes widely known by his son, who pulls his hands away from German Empire’s eyes.

“Why are you hiding your bruise when I have already seen it?”, Second German Empire asks, and all eyes turn to Weimar, including West’s and East’s, eyes gleaming with confusion and curiosity. “It’s like you’re trying to hide that you are dying to a doctor.”

Weimar’s blue eyes look down, but German Empire didn’t back down.

“I know that you were the one breaking bottles last night, Weimar”, Second German Empire approaches his son, and leans in. “Do not think I have heard your voice.”

Weimar’s downcast eyes turns to a look of confusion. “Papa, I have never snuck out last night!”

“Explain me hearing broken bottles and an old German melody being sung, then”, he turns to the people in the room, “have you heard those sounds waking you up?”

A chorus of affirmation rises from the crowd, and Second German Empire looks at Weimar sternly, who was rapidly shaking his head.

“I swear I didn’t do something as hazardly as that”, Weimar says, “I would never touch Papa’s bottles of whiskey!”

“Explain the wounds on your hands, son”, German Empire says. “Explain how you got them.”

A second of absolute silence is all what German Empire needs to get out of the house and smoke some cigars.

* * *

The third time it happens, Weimar looks like he was about to snap America in half. German Empire was quite happy to get invited to a show by America, along with Weimar and his sons.

_“It’s a movie”, America had said, pursing her lips together to make her look like one of the American actresses German Empire had seen before, “and you four are invited.” She handed the tickets to Weimar._

Truth be told, German Empire was quite delighted to see the twins being excited to go to the theatres for the first time. After all, they were born after German Empire’s most embarassing loss yet, against those damned Allies. He knows he should still be wary of them, but when he sees Weimar talking to America as if they were friends, he decides that the civil meetings the two had eventually blossomed to a friendship, and German Empire loved the idea of his son finally having friends.

The theatres were quite dim, and German Empire can’t help but go back to the trenches where he shared the night with Austria-Hungary, or the clinics where he sees many men die because of him. He would always see them in his dreams, forever miserably moaning and cursing German Empire, cursing and asking him why their fates had to be this cruel. German Empire would always reply that he didn’t know, that the fates were cruel, that God was unjust for letting this happen to them.

When the film begins, the setting looks so familiar to the point that German Empire has to squeeze his eyes shut to not let an influx of memories take over. Then, he hears a gunshot, ringing out from the film, and he sees Weimar covering West and East’s eyes. Of course, he wishes to protect the children’s innocence on such violence. But when a newspaper has been printed on the film, it answers the questions to why it was so familiar.

It was a reenactment of the Great War, from head to foot.

And just like the film, the memories start to go over his head again, all his cells the equivalent of the people in this cinema, and he mentally shuts down.

He awokens to the sound of someone screaming angrily, and, as much as his head is hurting from the memories, he tries to stand up and ultimately fails, stumbling a few steps, realizing that Weimar, West and East, were nowhere near him. He sighs, trying to keep his dirty blonde hair from falling down as he looks for them with his half-asleep eyes. Sleep is softly whispering to him to come back to her domain, but he wouldn’t let her, as German Empire stumbles through all corners of the theatres, and finally finds Weimar shouting at America, face full of fury. America looked bored, as if the man screaming in front of her is the least of her problems.

“Son”, German Empire says softly, approaching the group and tapping his son’s shoulder. Weimar swiftly turns towards German Empire with a fury, but it quickly vanishes to a worried look. “What was the movie all about?”

“It was about the Great War, Papa”, Weimar says softly, unlike the shrill sounds he had been making towards America earlier. “And she tried to make us look like bad people.”

America scoffs, possibly her only verbal response towards this entire conversation, “You  _are_  bad.”

“We’re not!”, Weimar bellows, and the twins flinch at their father’s harsh way of speaking. German Empire sighs, as he pulls the children closer to him, away from their angered father. “ _You’re_  the bad person here, along with your family!”

 _We’re all bad_ , German Empire thinks to himself, looking at his son and America as they continue their one-sided argument, that leaves Weimar in shambles, as America leaves, her heels echoing throughout the floors, and Weimar goes to the bathroom. German Empire instructs the twins to stay right there, as he follows his son towards the bathroom to, possibly, comfort him in his own way.

But as he nears the bathroom, Weimar locks it before German Empire has the chance to catch a glimpse of his son. He tries knocking and telling Weimar that this is his father, but to no avail. The bathroom was silent for a few minutes, and German Empire thinks that Weimar was silently crying in one of the stalls. After those few minutes of silence, he hears a series of choking, and the sound of vomitting something into the toilets, which is quite strange, as Weimar had not eaten in a day and a half, despite being told to. Is he trying to force the remaining food left from his stomach to the toilets? German Empire can’t let that happen, and he tries to force the door open, but to no avail. He hears a soft melody from Weimar, his voice hoarse and harsh due to probably vomitting a lot, but hears a set of nails, scratching one of the mirrors, and German Empire absolutely fears it. Then, he hears his son muttering, muttering that they will pay, they will pay for what they did to him, before his mutters become incoherent nonsense and soft laughter. The soft laughter turns to manic laughter, and German Empire runs towards the twins, telling them that Weimar is currently having troubles in the bathroom, and treats them to a nice lunch.

Weimar only comes back to the German household in the evening, looking more tired and messier than usual, his hands mangled and stained with what German Empire would deny seeing. He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone, and he goes and locks himself in his room.

German Empire is kept up all night by the sounds of German melodies being sung on his doorway.

* * *

The fourth time, German Empire actually witnesses it. He wakes up one morning, and goes to Weimar’s bedroom, to find him currently missing. German Empire decides that he must have gone to work earlier than usual in that morning. German Empire, after breakfast, decides to smoke a cigar, and goes outside, not wanting to puncture the twins’ lungs. He is greeted by the cold morning air around him, and he sighs, smiling a bit to himself.

He walks around the neighborhood, greeting his usual neighbors a good morning, as if there was no such thing as their entire country going bankrupt and still in debt. No such thing as many different parties trying to make Weimar crack. No such thing as German Empire dying. He glances at his skin, slowly disintegrating every single year. It had disintegrated his hands, and now it’s moving towards his arms. He will die, sooner or later, and he cannot escape the death cycle- it will come back to bite him in the worst ways possible.

Then, as he nears the urban areas, he hears noises in an alley. He hears the sound of a man, trying to make his way out of a labyrinth, before his distressed cries and pleas for help become a scream of horror and terror. German Empire, who could not control his urges, runs towards the direction of the noise. He leans along the brick walls, trying to become as invisible and as stealthy as he ever could, and glances at the horror spectacle that he was about to see.

Out of all things he expected would happen, he never expected to see blue eyes, madness and ecstasy ruling over it, his calm, soft smiles becoming a vessel for maddened laughs and insane smiles, his usually smooth and blonde hair, messy and covered with dirt, his skinny but calloused hands embracing all the dirt and blood, as he digs into his victim’s flesh.

His son.

His son, his beloved son, whom he had watched grown up, his innocent smiles turning into sad and tired ones, his gloved hands unafraid to touch the smallest spec of dirt, turn into something else, a darker figure, a brand new character molded from above. German Empire watches as Weimar tears his victim apart, snarling like a wolf as they devour their prey.

German Empire takes a step back, and runs towards the direction from where he came, not coming into contact with anyone as he races towards his house, on top of the floors, and checks Weimar’s room. He glances in horror, as he looks at the dead bodies scattered around his son’s room. He can feel Weimar’s presence inside the room, warning the intruders of what was to come to them in such an abrupt time.

“Father.” For the first time in German Empire’s life, he flinches, afraid of the voice from behind him. Rapidly, like a hunter caught in his own trap, he turns, to find Weimar, glowing with a brand new aura, an aura of evil and a sense of a brand new coming, to wipe all away with one drain.

German Empire decides to face his son, the son who had done horrendous crimes right in front of his eyes, but he decides not to see that, as he comes face-to-face again with tired but innocent eyes looking back at him.

German Empire, without thinking about his decisions, embraces Weimar warmly, to the point his son could hardly breathe.

* * *

German Empire was saved from yet another nightmare by the shrill screams from below the floors. He wouldn’t say he was saved by the screams - this was even worse than seeing Austria-Hungary’s decapitated head - it was more of a nightmare in real life. A darker nightmare, one he couldn’t just wake up from and find solitude from one of the cigars in his cupboards, no. This was something he can never escape, and the first thing he does is check Weimar’s room.

He races through the hallway, feet thudding and making the worn floorboards creek under him, as if screaming a song they can never unhear, and screeches to a stop just in front of Weimar’s door.

German Empire can’t understand what is happening to his son, to his only child who he loves to the point he’d rather die than seeing his son’s body, but he knows that it was those annoying and unpleasant political parties trying to murder Weimar and use his body as revenge. He’s seen revolutions, full scale ones, he’s seen the revolutions revolving and rotating to the point the person representing the land still retains aspects of themselves.

He opens the door, sweating with anxiety. German Empire wanted to deny that Weimar had turned evil, after an opposing party had come to destroy his party. Before turning the door knob, however, he hears someone stepping behind him, but before he could react or scream out in fright, he is hit with the sensation of death trying to tear him apart, and him dropping to the floor.

Cold air wakes German Empire up, as he drowsily opens his eyes only to find darkness. He can feel someone carrying him, without grunting or making noise, like he was only a suitcase meant to pack and store away to some cruise ship, which will eventually hit an iceberg and sink ever so slowly into the ocean, knowing that Death’s clock is ticking, and the people on the ship had no time to lose, jumping into the water to evade a sinking death, but freezing due to the ice cold climate.

German Empire, despite his head still hurting from the blow to the back of his head, tries to struggle, but it seems that, by smart choice, he is binded by strong ropes, and he can feel them depriving him of his movements and air. He stops struggling, knowing that the only way to face his incoming death is with courage, and hope. Hope that he can see Austria-Hungary again. He can feel Austria-Hungary’s aura around the air, and German Empire, maybe out of either desperation or desolation from removing the love of his life from this world, screams, and he hears the echo coming right back to him. German Empire didn’t cry, despite his heart slowing their beats for Austria-Hungary, he will  _not_  cry. He won’t cry teardrops that’d only be frozen in the air.

The person carrying him makes a stop, and German Empire can hear the sounds of ships and boats. They were going to kill him the same way the Allies killed all his friends. They didn’t kill Austria-Hungary like that- they opted for a more cruel way of killing him right in front of German Empire’s eyes. The person starts walking again, right next to an old and miniature boat, and German Empire can feel his stomach churning, wanting to empty itself.

The opportunity never came, as it seems his time is up. The minutes, then hours, travel around German Empire so fast, to think that one revolution around the sun would only be like a day to him, a revolve around it an hour to him. The days of his youth, his teens, and adulthood blur into one, the Great War now just a scar and an unpleasant memory, that will pop up in his mind from time to time with no warning. He can see Death now, holding his scythe in one hand, and a contract that German Empire will sign, once he’s stopped breathing, once he can’t think anymore, once he’s just  _gone_. He turns to face the man who had brought him to his doom, and his heart breaks the second time in only a decade.

“Oh, Weimar”, German Empire says, shaking his head rapidly from side to side, knowing that the day Weimar would snap is near. “How did we end up like this?”

Weimar’s emotionless blue eyes glint with fury, ambition, and madness. His lips curl up to an ear-splitting grin, as he looks st his father. “To finally seek vengeance on those who wronged me.”

German Empire rapidly shakes his head, biting his lower lip in the process. “We don’t need our vengeance to be grest again, Weimar. Please, come back to me.”

Weimar laughs, closing his eyes, as if his father’s anguish is such a thing to laugh about. “How much do you not understand? I am not Weimar, he is gone from this place. I am irreversible, and I will be the salvation to all Germans.”

With that, Weimar abruptly stands, and, without warning, pushes a dagger through German Empire, and the latter chokes, pain surging up inside him, like a dozen bows finally hitting him at one point. His son, his own son, finally pushes him off the boat, and into the saltwater, and German Empire holds his breath. He flinches and tries not to scream as his fresh wound comes to contact with saltwater, someone puncturing and forcing pressure into it. German Empire can see crimson blood, running from his wound, and floating into the dark blue waters.

His lungs run out of air desperate to breathe, and he trashes around, trying to float towards the midnight sky dancing upon him. He can feel the pain on his body increasing, and German Empire releases his breath and inhales the saltwater, its content puncturing his chest and lungs with a thousand knives. He can feel himself dying, limbs going slack, body going rigid, lungs feeling in with water and the stab wound bleeding out too much blood.

Before he can see darkness again, this time irreversible, he can feel Austria-Hungary’s hands embracing him one last time.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some short stories explaining most of my brain process during the death of my internet  
> my ch tumblr account is now @countryshitposts

Israel waits for the wall clock to strike seven, as he stares at it with his blue eyes. His gloved fingers drums on the handle of his briefcase, wanting to get home to have a nice dinner with his wife. Then he realizes that maybe his wife would be out in the world, perhaps talking to other people much more interesting than he, and sulking yet again. His suit jacket feels warm on his body, and he can feel the sun, despite it being evening, burning him. It was a hot summer night, of course it’s going to be hot.

As the clock ticks seven, he gets up from the chair he was sitting, and immediately walks towards the door with a slight speed on his steps; he doesn’t greet Egypt and Jordan a goodbye. Why would he? Their so-called _friendship_ is covered in plastic, and, needless to say, they don’t like him, he doesn’t either. It’s basically mutual at this point.

He doesn’t need a car, as the office and his home was just a block away. He walks alone, the streetlights the only thing that can guide him home, as if they’re angels trying to guide him up to heaven, pointing towards his house as they sing in a choir of cadence and love. He isn’t exactly fuelled with love, oh no. Something worse and sickening as that chemical that enchants people’s minds.

He opens the door, expecting it to be empty, but to his surprise, the United Nations and his wife, America, were both sitting on the dinner table, eating and talking to each other. If only that is how their family is supposed to be, always. America turns her head as Israel closes the door and puts his briefcase in a corner of the living room. She smiles, and Israel tiredly smiles at her, despite her smile being a facade, a fake one even from the start.

“Father”, United Nations clears their throat, nodding to Israel before turning their head back to their dinner.

Israel’s interactions with the UN and NATO are limited, despite them being his children, and being a part of their national organizations. America embraces Israel, and Israel, the smaller, nuzzles into her warm body, the smell of her strawberry perfume enchanting him. He sighs as she chuckles, and she lets go of him to go back to the dinner table. Israel unbuttons his suit and hangs it over the coat rack, as he walks towards the dinner table.

He sits and takes a portion of food, as he enjoys the silence between his family. NATO is, unsurprisingly, not here, as he's busy keeping communism at bay and to show how superior capitalism is. He curses America's teachings, her ideologies always getting in the way of her actually being a good mother to her children. After dinner, he immediately changes out of his work clothes, to something more comfortable, as he removes his gloves and puts it on the bin. Israel opens the bedroom door to find America there, her feet dangling towards the floor, her golden hair wavy and - as usual - enchanting.

Israel walks towards America, and, takes her hand. America perks up from what she was thinking, and she smiles at Israel and plants a soft kiss on his forehead. He didn't know how or why, but tonight he and America are tangled with each other on the sheets. He misses the warmth that he had lacked ever since he started living, the soft kisses perched across his cheek and skin, the hot breaths along his bones and necks, and the warm and soft hands that he had grown to admire. So he lays there, staring that the ceiling, as America sleeps.

* * *

Teikoku struts towards the office building, gathering whispers from the bystanders and witnesses, who sees him, the Land of the Rising Sun, walking like he owns this place. Well, maybe one day, he will. Maybe one day he will have all of the world at his mercy, in the hands of his palms, as he crushes them with his bare fingers. And while they scream and beg him to stop, he will only laugh at their pitiful nature, and continue, a smirk dancing across his face.

As he enters the building, he is met with glass mirrors. He growls, as he comes face-to-face with his reflection; a young Japanese man with a military cut, and literal black eyes with thin lines running across his face. He once had beautiful eyes- light blue eyes that can rival even the sky, but it had turned to what it is now, due to the Meiji Restoration and the complete abolition of the samurai.

 _Well, it needed to happen_ , he says to himself as he continues to walk, trying to ignore the mirrors. He wonders how egotistic America has to be for her to build mirrors in this damned place. Teikoku finally reaches America's office, and knocks on the door. A muffled voice tells him to come in, and he opens the door to find America sitting behind the desk, trying to sort out files, before clasping her hands and looks at Teikoku with a small smile; a smile to look formal, unlike that big grin she always wears whenever she's gleeful.

"Japan, what a... _surprise_ ", America says, clicking her tongue. Teikoku only nods as he sits in one of the available seats. "What brings you here in the capital?"

"There is something I wish to ask of you", Teikoku says, as he clasps his hands similarly to America. "A... _proposition_."

America raises a brow. "Oh? Do care to elaborate."

Teikoku smirks, "I hear you are having problems with this... _Boxer_ Rebellion."

America rolls her eyes, and Teikoku feels enamored by her beauty- she is just as beautiful as the Japanese women. "Ah yes, the son of Qing. I still have no idea why he's so popular in China."

Teikoku raises a brow, his mind going back to the opium wars, "I will help you, in exchange of one condition."

"You _do_ know that seven countries are trying to quell that bastard son of Qing, right?", she says, "what makes you any different?"

Teikoku's left eye twitches due to annoyance, but he takes in a deep breath to be on America's good terms. "As a neighboring country of the Qing Dynasty, I should also participate in this war. Do not worry, I will not participate on whatever you _gajins_ want to do with China after that. Also, I defeated them in the Sino-Japanese War, so I'm perfectly qualified to quell Boxer and his rebellion."

"Your mouth, Japan", America says, "you're lucky that I don't know much Japanese to understand that. But, oh well, if you want, you can help us fight Boxer. That man has fucking supporters for some reason."

Teikoku grins to himself, as he nods, fully satisfied that he will now be equal to these _gajins_ and will never be underestimated any longer. As he stands up to leave, he is stopped by a hand on his wrist. Annoyed, he looks back towards America, who was leaning forward on her seat.

"What is it now, Amerika-san?", he asks, not keeping his annoyance coated anymore.

"Japan, I know this may sound quite surreal to you, but...", she bites her lip, hesitating, which is quite peculiar towards Teikoku, who has only seen a confident America, "will you spend the night with me? Just this once? Ya know, as a thank you gift for letting you in this alliance?"

Teikoku has no interest whatsoever in sleeping with her, but he if he did, he'd figure out her darkest secrets, and, temporarily, be satisfied to get a taste of an actual superpower. Teikoku smirks, and he nods, and America's eyes light up, as she escorts him to her bedroom.

A year later, there was a knock on his door. Okinawa runs towards the door, hoping it's from a post man, but instead there's a tall woman standing there, holding a bundle on her arms. Okinawa looks at her with awe, and she smiles at him.

"Is your father here?", she asks him with a sweet voice. "I just want to show him something."

Okinawa nods, and, despite having a fear for his father, he goes towards his father's bedroom. Before he knocks, however, he prepares himself for the worst and makes him look presentable enough to be in front of his father. He softly knocks on the door, and the door creaks open, making him gasp. His knees start to shake, as he is, yet again, face-to-face with his father. Teikoku looks at him with an annoyed expression.

"Boy, how many times do I have to tell you to never knock unless you have something to say?", he says, calm yet tone raised.

"B-but Papa, there is a woman in the doorway", Okinawa says, shaking. "I am sorry Papa, it will never happen again."

Teikoku's gaze softens, as he pats Okinawa's head. "Do not worry, Okinawa-chan. I'm only mad due to the woman waiting at the doorway." And with that, he turns towards the living room and appraoches America. As he reaches her, he closes the door and glares at America.

"What are you doing here, America-san?", he hisses.

"I'm here to tell you that this is your daughter", America says as she lowers her arms so that Teikoku can see the tiny infant. "Needless to say, we made her after that one-night stand."

Teikoku looks at the child with a cynical expression, and he sighs, taking the child from America. "You're lucky that I don't throw my children out unlike you, America-san."

America rolls her eyes. "Listen Japan, I have more children than you'll ever have. Just take care of her."

Teikoku sighs, cradling the infant in his arms. "Hm. Fine. I'll name her Palau, and may she bring glory to the gods."

* * *

_Palau is under the stars, the fireflies and the moon luminating her as she dances near the waters, imitating the currents and the moon jellyfish coming out of hiding. Her hair is kept by her flowers, but it is becoming tangled underneath it. She dances and laughs, as she puts her tiptoes on the water, shivering at how cold it is. Then, a rustle from the woods. Palau abruptly stops dancing, her knees now shaking. Her father had always told her to beware of men who follow her deep into the woods, yet she did not listen._

_The rustling grows louder, and Palau's fears grew. She tries to find something to defend herself, but finds nothing but a fallen palm branch, and she picks it up, bracing for the worst. From the bushes exits a bunny, and she squeals from surprise as she falls over and lands on the water, making a _'splash'_ sound._

_"Is someone there?", a male voice asks, and Palau immediately gets up from the ground. More rustling in the woods, and, again, Palau braces herself for the worst. Then, a man with Spanish clothes bursts out, and she screams, and so does the man. "Oh I'm so sorry! I didn't know you were here!"_

_Palau stops screaming, as she is face-to-face with the man. "Oh, um, I'm sorry for screaming out loud, too."_

_The man smiles awkwardly, scratching his head, his messy black hair full of strands of white hair. Don't ask how she can see it- the moonlight is letting her see even the smallest things._

_"Then again, I'm sorry for interrupting whatever you're doing", he says. "By the way, my name is Philp of Spain. What's yours?"_

_"Erm, Palau." Palau's eyes light up as she processes Philip of Spain's name. "Wait- you're Spain's son, right?"_

_Philip shrugs, his gold and brown eyes looking to the side. "Yes, but I wish to get independence from him. It's been three hundred years of absolute superiority in my isles; it's time to put a stop to it."_

_Palau smiles. "Well, good luck to your revolution."_

_Philip goes red, "T-thank you so much, Palau."_

Philippines and Palau look at each other, and Palau sighs, annoyed yet again at the stupidity of this man.

"Philippines, when will I stop finding your ships in my coasts and seas?", Palau says coolly, attempting a 'businesswoman' phase. That's what father taught her, back when she was still wondering how the world works. "Now? Tomorrow? _Never_?"

Philippines sighs, rolling his eye. Palau looks at his sun-shaped eyepatch, where his golden eye used to be before it was ripped away from him by her father. "Listen, I _will_ try and get those ships out of your coastline, I swear."

Palau rolls her eyes, sighing. "You always say that, yet you never act on it, Philippines. Then again, I've been giving you threats of war over this, but that seems petty." She thinks of a good reason to get his boats out of her sight. Then, an idea forms over her head, and she looks at her ex-husband with a brilliant light in her emerald eyes. "I _will_ cut ties with you, Philippines."

The man only scoffs. "Oh? You _do_ know we're important trading partners with each other, right? Without me, you'll crumble."

Palau narrows her eyes. "Oh please, there are other pleasing Asian nations to be looking forward to. Like... father, or, maybe, Mingguo Taiwan. Plus, it'll look bad on your image to find me and your ties to be cut."

Philippines sighs, as he stands, "Fine. I'll get those ships out of your seas."

"I won't believe you 'til I see it."

Philippines leaves the room, and Palau sighs as she takes a photo from one of the picture frames facing to her; her and Philippines in their wedding day, a bright smile on both their faces. There was something different with the way Philippines was smiling in this photo; it was jovial, full of spirit, and the hope of a bright future. Only for this smile to be brushed away after her father massacred him. She wonders how and why it all ended.

* * *

When Hungary's alarm clock fails to wake him up, he knows there's something wrong. When the sun shines on his bedroom door, he knows there's something wrong. Hungary, with shaking hands, looks at the alarm clock, which says it was already seven in the morning. A jolt of panic fills Hungary, as he is late for the Warsaw Pact meeting, and, in fact, also late to make breakfast for himself, Ost, Czechoslovakia and his children. He swears at himself, wondering how and why he missed the time and opportunity for him to be free.

Hungary opens his closet doors to look for his uniform, and, there it is; crumpled, dusty, and somewhat faded. He hurriedly puts it on, as he puts the Soviet arm brand on his arm. He sighs, as he looks at himself on his mirror, whispers of ill flooding his brain and ears. He touches the circles underneath his eyes, a sign of a lack of sleep, and feels his skinny physique, a sign that he doesn't eat much. There had been a time he was almost bony, to the point he can even see his ribcage. He had passed out after that, and Czechoslovakia tried to get him to eat.

Hungary can see tears forming on his eyes; why? What is the point of showing sadness whenever you feel lonely if no one will ever know how you feel? What's the point of tears trickling down your face if you only get a slap and stating to stop being a _person_? What is these tears and feelings all about? To bring about someone eternal misery to the point of no return? To make people hide themselves about their grief?

Hungary's tears start to fall, despite him trying so hard for it not to trickle down. He hates this. He hates feeling the prospect of being weak, of being vulnerable. He's lucky that no one would see him, except for himself. Of how much of a failure he was. Of how much he wants to be set free of this curse but it turns a one-eighty on him and now he's faced with the same problems as Weimar and Austria had after the Great War. Oh, how he missed the times he had a strong moral compass.

He hears the door opening, and he stiffens, trying to stop his sniffles and tries to compose himself, not wanting anyone, even his comrades, to find out about this. About how vulnerable he is in private. He wipes his tears away, and stands in a soldier's position to greet his comrades, hands behind his back. What he didn't expect was his brother, Austria, to enter his room with a worried expression.

"Hungary, I heard you crying and...", Austria looks at him up and down, "...and the Soviet Union is gone. He's been gone for almost three decades now."

Hungary sniffles, still wiping some tears, "He is?"

Austria nods. "Yeah. You don't need to wear that uniform now. Come on, I made breakfast for all of us."

Hungary nods slowly, as he politely tells his brother to leave the room so he can change, and Austria obliges. He looks at himself in the mirror again, his red eyes telling the same story, over and over again, of abuse and neglect. He removes his uniform and gently puts it back in his closet, despite the bad memories kept within it. Every single thing he had done for the Soviet Union, he had did it for himself as well. He had thought of trying to cut off all his family members out of his life, but it proves to be worthless, as the string of fate weaves him right back to where he started, back to them.

If destiny is true, then he regrets burning all of the precious memories he had with his family, from good and bad.

_Hungary lights a cigarette, as he puts one of his hands inside of his jacket's pockets, the winter harsh and cold in Russia, the grand Motherland. It isn't what he thought of it to be; he thought it would be full of happy, bustling people, but all he finds are quiet men and women, starving people, trying to live the rest of their days with limited food. Motherland isn't what it used to be, but Hungary has no time to think of that as he feels the pictures in his pockets; there's something he needs to do, and he needs to do it right now._

_Hungary, looking around, not wanting the spies nor the people to see where he was headed. He makes his way to a secluded forest, full of icy branches and snow. Snow was not soft in his hands- it was cold and wet, just like the tears that sometimes exit his eyes. He finally decides that this part of the forest is secluded enough, and, he inhales every last bit of his cigarette stick, and throws it to the ground and stomps on it._

_He didn't even know how and why he developed an obsession towards smoking anyway. It's as if his moral compass of being against smoking, drugs and drinking had faded away now, after World War Two. He didn't know why, but the god from up above decided to give him the freedom to decide who he will be once Soviet had him in his palms, and he chose this path. To live a path where he is a whole new person, built from the ground for this harsh and new terrain and regime._

_Hungary takes out the photos from his pockets, flicks the lighter, its orange flame glowing warm in the cold and dark forest, and he lights the first picture on fire- it was of him and Austria-Hungary, his late father, dearly departed after the Great War they made him and his siblings fight. He watches the photo with peculiar feelings stirring in his chest, and he frowns. He burns the second photo, of he, Weimar, Czechoslovakia and Austria in the Great War; he flinches at the memories of the Great War, and was delighted to watch the photo burn away._

_The last one, of he and Austria, being actually happy and delighted with one another... he stops for a minute, as he looks at the delighted smile of his brother, Austria, which will later fade into a sad frown after he was married off to Switzerland. Those Allied bastards. Those capitalist pigs. His hands shake as he tries to burn off the edge of the photo, but tears start to form inside his eyes. He wonders why, he wonders why he's hesitating to burn this photo, but he listens to his body language, turns his lighter off, and puts the photo back on his pocket._

Hungary looks at the photo, now on a picture frame on the staircase of Austria's home- whenever he glances at it, he can feel all the memories come back.

* * *

South Korea sets the table to look as if she had been eating and dining on it, when, in reality, she eats a cup of ramen in her bed as she surveys the web with her laptop, sunken eyes staring straight at the bright screen. She hears the kettle whistling, and she hurries over to her little kitchenette to turn the stove off and pour the boiling water to two cups of coffee powder. She has a visitor today; someone she hasn't seen for decades after their separation.

Then there was a knock on her door. Just in time, as she puts the two cups of coffee across each other she races towards her front door, looking at herself on her cellphone's screen, trying to see if she looks acceptable enough to be at his presence, and opens the door to be met with her brother, North Korea.

"North", South says as she bows in greeting, and her brother greets back, although tense and stiff. "It's nice to see you again."

"It's nice to see you again, South", he nods, and he looks around, an unreadable expression on his face. South manages to make out the eyepatch that had been there after the Korean War, a symbol will forever mean he is now out of her reach, forever and ever. But today, she hopes that everything could change, today would be the day she and her brother would finally put an end to their differences, and - possibly - unify.

"Come on, sit with me", South says as she points to the chair across her. North slightly nods as he sits right across from her. South then notices North's eye has dark circles underneath them, and she sighs to herself as she edges the coffee cup towards him. "Why don't you eat? I have plenty of leftovers in the fridge."

North shakes his head, his bony and gloved hands reaching for the cup of coffee, his remaining eye looking at it with such intensity, as if it is his decision to even _feed_ himself with a caffeineted drink. South Korea looks at her brother with a worried look in her eyes, wondering when was the last time he had even fed himself.

"I just need coffee, I am fine, sister." He takes a sip, and puts it back on its proper place. He clasps his hands together as he bites his lips. "It has been a long time."

South Korea sighs, then smiles at North. "I know."

* * *

Mingguo looks at the grave stone, draped in imperial clothing that he had stolen from his long-dead father, the Qing Dynasty. He sighs to himself, as he puts the buquoet of flowers on the grave, that read; _Huaxia, beloved mother of Mingguo (Republic of China), and Zhongguo (People's Republic of China)._ He touches the words etched on the grave stone, and he touches the carving of Zhongguo's name, carved by himself at her informal funeral.

He looks at the previous buquoet of flowers, wilted and its petals dull colored. He's fascinated with the mortality of the world, the mortality of the future looming in front of him. Formosa told him that nothing lasts forever, as she weaves clothes for their soon baby in her stomach. Mortality is such a funny thing for he and the others who is only alive because their political strength and country is still standing. And, if they lose the power and privilege they had, they will slowly decline and crumble towards their deaths, like how Qing started to crumble after the Opium Wars. Mingguo had somewhat felt sorry at the status of his father as the dying dynasty, and he decided to end his suffering by murdering him, with the help of his younger brother.

His younger brother.

Mingguo's remaining eye looks at Zhongguo's name, and he can feel a mix of regret and sadness plunging deep into his stomach, remembering his younger brother's delightful smile and innocent mentality, be replaced with something worse. Malicious smiles, his remaining amber eye scanning for a weakness in every person he sees, using it to his advantage, and twirling them around his finger as he manipulates each and every single one of their decisions, and, just like the other superpowers, watches from afar as discord breaks out from the others.

Then again, it is his fault for making his brother become... like _that_. It's what Huaxia had told him when he went home after the Opium Wars; _"Someone will be at fault if, say, they try to manipulate the fates of others."_ And yet, he forgot her wise words as he can feel the embodiment of paranoia tying strings at his body, and almost murdering his brother during their first part of the Civil War. And the Civil War both costed them one of their eyes, removed by each other.

He sighs, as he puts his forehead on the grave stone, imagining the kisses his mother used to give him and Zhongguo.

"I am sorry, Mama", Mingguo says, as he can feel tears forming on his eye. He sighs, as he gets up from the grave stone, and bows as a sign of respect towards his mother. He then moves on to another grave stone- this one less grand, yet as fine as Huaxia's.

"Boxer", Mingguo says, as he kneels down towards the grave stone, reading the words carved on it, "son of the Qing Dynasty, beloved brother to Shandong." He notices the carved yin and yang symbol on his grave stone, and he smiles sadly. He had silently been watching as Shandong deperately etches the yin and yang symbol on his brother's grave; it was Boxer's main symbol during the Boxer Rebellion, before he was beheaded by Teikoku.

Boxer had mainly been his only friend since childhood, despite being older than Mingguo for a number of decades. He was a firm believer of eastern spirit and technology, and personally abhorred the westerners, or the Europeans. He talked too much, was an esteemed member of the imperial court of Qing, right next to the rightful heir of the crowned dynasty, Manchukuo.

"Manchukuo", Mingguo says his oldest brother's name out loud, looking around until he finally finds it; it looks rushed, it looks like he hasn't been properly buried, it looks like the grave was a rushed one made by the Soviet Union himself, as he enters the imperial graves with no absolute consequences whatsoever. Though Manchukuo may be a coward and a traitor, he didn't deserve to die just because Teikoku had used him for his own gain. Mingguo had no idea what Qing had seen in Manchukuo when he has chosen him as his heir.

Mingguo gets up, as he takes a breath, then bows towards the grave stones and tombs in the imperial graveyard, then leaves, going back to his modest home in Taipei, as he and Formosa live their bittersweet lives.

Zhongguo enters the imperial graveyard, holding a buquoet of flowers, looking for his mother's grave. After centuries of not visiting his mother due to how busy - how much of a coward - he is. He can feel an air of horror all around him, the clouds gray in the sky. He tries to calm his breathing, telling himself that the scary stories his mother and Mingguo used to tell him to keep him in line. There is no use for these stories now, as he learns from his blind childhood of innocence that sometimes, the real monster is right in front of him, or every where else.

No one told him that he was the monster terrorizing everyone.

And Zhongguo finally finds his mama's grave- draped in imperial clothing and full of many, many buquoets of flowers, all dull and wilted, except for one. He knows that Mingguo has always been here, has always visited, and he wishes that he could see his brother once again-

Then he blinds, his golden eye fluidly looking around. But then Mingguo isn't his brother. He stopped being Zhongguo's brother after the latter had disowned him. He had exiled him here in this island, where in which he had made his home, and where in which he can feel Taiwanese nationalism increasing every single day. Zhongguo sighs, as he drops to one knee in front of his mama's grave stone, and he looks at the grave stone with a sad smile. Maybe later, he can talk about his business opportunities and plans, but right now, he is trying to catch up with the mama who was cruelly taken from him due to an illness caused by his father's misfortune later in his life. He had felt himself die the day mama died, and he can feel mama all around him as he looks down at the grave stone.

"Nihao, Mama."

* * *

The Philippines gently knocks on the door and he waits for America. He has a bouquet of flowers in his arms for the lovely lady, wanting to woo her with his nonexistent charms. Though he may not be the brightest, richest, nor the most charming person to ever grace America's eyes, maybe he could have a shot at her and have a nice life with the amazing grace that had saved him from his father. When he had first seen her, he almost fell down his chair to see her presence in the general's table, and he was mesmerized by her presence, every where she goes.

The door opens, and Philippines stops breathing, as he is face-to-face with America, with her golden blonde hair and her shades covering what her eyes truly look like. Her red lips smile at the man standing before her, and he shakes due to anxiety.

"What brings you here, Philip?", America says, leaning against the doorway. "I'm _very_ busy right now."

"O-oh, I didn't know you were busy", Philippines scratches his head, and he swears to himself, "I-I'll just return to you in another day..."

"Oh, no need", America says, waving a hand as she makes an opening towards the doorway with a smile on her face. "Why don't you come in, dear? I want to ask why you knocked on my door this late." She vanishes back to the living room, and Philippines follows soon after.

He sits down on the comfortable couch, loving the way it comforts him and makes him relax as he hears America come back from the kitchen, with a tray on her hands. She sits down right next to Philippines, and he can feel himself get hot once again. America's perfectly cut and dainty fingers brush against Philippines' darker and calloused ones, as he watches America pour tea into two cups. She gives one towards the Philippines, and, not wanting to be rude, he take a sip, and almost spits it out due to how sweltering hot it was.

"Careful dear, it just came back from the oven", America says as she leans on to the armrest of the couch, letting her legs rest against Philippines' lap, much to the other's embarassment. She takes another sip of her cup of tea before looking back at Philippines with a _different_ smile this time. "So, what brings you here?"

"Well..." Philippines looks at the long legs drifted on his lap, then back at America, "I just want to ask you if... well, you're single."

America chuckles whole heartedly, and Philippines can feel himself get warmer. "'Course dear. We can meet on Saturday evenin', after I'm done helpin' my father with his errands around the world." She sits up, and leans closer to the Philippines, putting a finger towards his chin, pushing it up, and bridges the distance between them.

The Philippines was quite surprised at this movement, but he leans into the kiss, trying to savor her. She breaks the kiss after a few more seconds, and the man beside her pants, his chestnut eyes shining, looking straight at her.

"Now, would you like to stay with me for supper?", America says, as she gets up from the sofa with a dazzling smile. "I mean, I usually dine alone, except whenever my father and brothers are here to stay. But, I can make an exception for you, _dear_." She walks back to the kitchen, leaving the Philippines behind to love her.

* * *

Weimar walks at the streets of the bustling city of - unbelievably - Berlin, with -also unbelievably - _America_ herself. The last time he's seen her was when Weimar was busy sucking their dick. He looks around, seeing nothing but noisy cars and lights, even in the night. What kind of future is this? How far is he to the future to the point he can't even recognize the beautiful serenity of Berlin before? Weimar stays close to America, but not too close to that bastard, not wanting to make any contact with her, after what she and the Allies did to his family. After what he did to him.

Weimar then, out of fear of being either too close or too far enough from America, he bumps into someone, and they both look at each other. Weimar narrows his eyes, as he stares at the person he's bumped into; it's quite obvious they're not a regular human being- the black eyes and stringed lines would be the most obvious pinpointer, with the golden slit for a substitute of irises. They narrow their eyes towards Weimar, and he can feel panic surging across him as they approach he and America. He expects a slap or a punch in the face for such a minor offense but-

"Dad, why are you covered in blood?", they ask Weimar as they embrace the smaller man, who, happens to be, covered in blood.

Weimar blinks, trying to process and try to remember if he had another kid after Vichy France, West and Ost; the worst case scenario is that _he_ had a child with someone else, and that is the only thing he can think of as the person hugging him drapes back, with a worried expression crossing over his face.

"EU, that's not your dad", America says, scratching her head. "That's Weimar, your dad's dad."

The person - EU - rolls their eyes, "You could've just said 'grandfather', I would've understood it either way." Then they look back at Weimar with sad eyes. "Didn't you... _die_? My father and aunt told me about you."

"I- yes, I died", Weimar stutters, shaking a bit, as if he's afraid death will strike him once again. "I don't know how I came back to this world though. So... you're West's kid."

EU nods. "My full name is European Union, a union for - most - European countries. I kind of keep things in check around the whole continent." His tone is somewhat proud, somehow, which wasn't really an uncommon or peculiar trait in the German family, but he nor his children never got that trait.

"You literally want people to pay you so they can have freedom of expression", America deadpans, raising a brow.

EU glares at her, "Shut up, America."

America rolls her eyes, but didn't say anything as she keeps her arms crossed. Weimar processes the way America says it, how EU is trying to make the Europeans pay for their freedom of expression. He's somewhat wary of his grandchild, but he also adores them. He wonders who their parent is, though.

"EU", Weimar begins, and EU turns towards him, "who's your mother?"

EU looks hesitantly at America, who bites her lip, before looking back at Weimar with a nervous expression. "Would you be... _devasted_ if I say my mother is France, and your son is married to her and Britain?"

Weimar furrows his brows, and feels his limbs go slack as they mention France and Britain. He didn't know what's worse- France and West _made_ EU or West being married to she and Britain. He can feel bad memories around those two- France and Belgium beating him up and murdering his factory workers, or Britain being his client for two straight years. He had a severe loathing against the Allies, and his hatred had turned Weimar into the man he hated the most. And West developed actual _affection_ and _love_ for these monsters?

With shaking hands, he looks up at EU, with a boiling fury in his eyes, " _How_ did that even happen?"

"Well, maybe Dad can tell you everything about how I came to be", EU says, shrugging. He puts a hand on Weimar's shoulder, and Weimar didn't slap it off, unlike what he normally does when someone didn't ask consent to touch him. "Me and grandfather will be off now; you go back to Israel or, _whoever_ you're fucking."

They both turn away from America as they continue the walk towards West's house, with EU telling Weimar some mildly interesting stories, and filling him in with what's happened after the Second World War. It was followed by the Cold War, a conflict between the new superpowers, the Soviet Union and the United States of America. Weimar was actually quite entertained when EU talked about how after World War Two ended Great Britain was not considered a superpower any longer, and that their British Empire collapsed in ninety-seven after the Handover. Weimar still wonders how West learned to love them.


	21. another collection of short stories from tumblr (part ii)

The Soviet Union looks at his father, puzzled at how this place can fit so many time periods and people all at once, especially when the populace have not tried to murder each other yet, knowing full well that they are now truly,fully immortal and they can revel in this. It just seems quite peaceful, no weed in the fields of flowers.

Russian Empire smiles at his son, as he calls over a man dressed in a kimono and holding a sword. “Satsuma, come here and meet my son!”

The man faces them, and sighs, as if this is the third or umpteenth time Russian Empire has called him over for useless favors. The Soviet Union has no idea who Satsuma is, but he seems to be related to Japan, that little bastard.

“What is it now?”, he asks impatiently. “I was supposed to be meeting up with Qing and Joseon for chess.”

“Save a few minutes to meet my dear son!”, Russian Empire smiles as he pushes Soviet Union - forcefully - towards Satsuma, who looks quite uninterested. Soviet glares at his father, but he composes himself as he looks at Satsuma.

“My name is Soviet Union.”

Satsuma clicks his tongue, “Ah, yes, you. Russia here has been complaining about you ever since you have slain him. When did you depart from the land of the living, then?”

Soviet Union looks at his father, who shrugs back at him. He isn’t even surprised that his father would complain about him to strangers in this god-forsaken place. “1991. I took a quick nap and woke up near my father’s shoes.”

Satsuma nods. “Hm. It has been quite a long time since I have left that world.” His tone turns spiteful. “How is Meiji, then?”

Soviet Union shrugs. “He goes by Japan now, but to answer for that asshole, he’s fine.”

Satsuma holds his katana, staring at it with shiny brown eyes. “I supported the Restoration of Japan, I supported Meiji Japan, but he has dishonored me by abolishing the samurais! I had the chance to stop him, but he bested me in every turn!”

Soviet Union nods, not really interested in the story but interested at the face Satsuma is making right now.

* * *

The sound of the kettle screaming pierces through the air, and East turns the stove off without a second thought. She pours the steaming hot water into two cups with coffee powder already in it, and starts to stir it. She has a guest on her small, tiny apartment today, and she doesn’t want to disappoint her. She looks at her Highness, who was sitting in one of her only sofa, the only luxury she can have in her life. Russia’s hands were on her lap, , as she kicks her feet and hums to herself. Her serene smile makes East’s heart thump as she approaches Russia with both cups of coffee. 

“Um, do you want some coffee, Miss?”, East asks, referring to Russia formally, afraid of provoking her or making their awkward situation even more awkward. The situation was already awkward when Russia asked East if she can stay with her last night, during a thunderstorm, but it got even more awkward when she and Russia had shared a bed to conserve their warmth.

“Oh, thank you East”, Russia says as she takes a cup from East’s hands. She and and East drink their morning coffee, the sun’s rays shining, letting them witness what a cold and frosty night can become in a sunny morning. There was a peaceful silence settling in East’s apartment, a stained glass adorned by colors and geometric shapes, lined up to this moment with she and Russia.

“How did you know my address?”, East suddenly asks, and Russia perks up. “I mean, we’ve talked before, but not really about personal stuff.”

“Oh, well, I was actually going to random doors and asking them if I could sleep in their homes tonight”, Russia’s eyes linger to the only picture frame East has; it was of her and the members of the Warsaw Pact, happily smiling at the camera. It was one of the only times they smiling at a camera. “I didn’t really know that you stayed here; sorry if I was being a bother to you last night.”

“No, it’s fine, Miss”, East says as she places her empty coffee cup on her small china table.

“You can just call me Russia, it’s fine”, Russia replies, as she stands up from where she was sitting, and places her coffee cup on the china table as well. “All right, I should probably get going now.”

There was something inside of East that deflated once she heard Russia going home now, but she gulps it down and nods. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

Russia shakes her head. “No, it’s fine, I’m just going to meet up with my sisters in one of the parks we always visit.” She hugs East, and the latter, though initially shocked that Soviet’s daughter is actually hugging her, hugs back tentatively, feeling Russia’s warmth coursing through her. After they break apart, Russia says, “I’ll give you your clothes back after I wash them myself.”

“No, it’s fine, you can keep it”, East replies, and Russia smiles and chuckles, and East can feel her heart beat faster, and her face warm.

“Oh, no, I can’t just take your clothes”, Russia replies, as she opens the door.

“I’ll see you again.” Russia exits and closes the door, leaving East there, feeling as if she has to soar high above the clouds, and that she won’t plummet down to earth with this brand new feeling.

* * *

West woke up to the sound of glass shattering in the middle of the night, and he knows it was his Papa returning to home late at night, sick and tired. He feels East’s body move, as she subconsciously hears the glass shattering in her sleep. West tries to ignore the loud steps resonating towards the house, like an old witch creeping, monitoring every door to find children and taking them with her to her old house in the woods. West shivers, not as the cold wind blows through their room, but as the footsteps stop in front of their door. He shakes in fear, trying to shield his sister from the oncoming threat, but the feet starts to walk towards their Papa’s bedroom. West sighs in relief, knowing that it is their Papa, and he was about to get a nice sleep. He closes his eyes once again, feeling the paradise of being in a world where he would wake up in a second.

Then, he wakes up to the sound of screaming from downstairs- a cold feeling climbs through his spine, clawing and also giving him the urge to scream, but he keeps quiet. Another scream, and East rapidly gets up from her sleeping position. West and East embrace each other, as another scream goes through the night. They cannot move, as if their own bodies were frozen under thick layers of ice, not melting from the cold night. And who can blame them? Would they be able to face the person jeopardizing their night? Would they be able to play chess with the person who is causing this screams? Would they be able to play the man who is scaring them to checkmate and remove the king in the chess board?

West closes his eyes, wishing he can close his and East’s ears. Then he hears a door open, and footsteps thudding downstairs. It must be Grandfather, trying to figure out what is going on. West hopes he can replace the shattered glass with a brand new glass pane. Then he hears Grand father coming back upstairs, softer this time, and opens their Papa’s bedroom’s door. Then, they hear a loud thud, and West jumps, East rubs his back to soothe him. They watch a silhouette, dragging someone else, downstairs.

They stay like that, frightened and hoping for the best, as the beautiful morning sun shines through their bedroom. They look at each other, their chestnut brown and emerald green eyes looking into each other. They get out of bed, their feet on the wooden floor, holding hands, feeling warmth as they open their bedroom door. They go downstairs, to find everything bleak, and grey. No people in sight, no shattered glass. No nothing. The house was quiet, even the bustling streets of busy people were not talking to them. Only whispers inside of their head, telling them of what is to come.

And then, a turn on the doorknob, with a familiar figure. West’s eyes brighten, the last time it will brighten in his entire life, as he subconsciously digs his fingernails into East’s palms, who was also happy to finally see their Papa once again. But as he enters the house, a black curtain unveils, and West and East’s smile fades.

“Y-you’re not Papa”, West says in a small voice. The figure only grins.

“I’m not, but I will be.”

* * *

Weimar comes home late at night, bruises and cuts making it harder for him to walk, as he limps towards the front door to be greeted by his father. Weimar can feel the hard gaze of his father, as he looks down on the ground, trying to shield himself. He couldn’t feel anything besides pain, something that he had to endure in the worst of ways. He cannot be at peace with himself, and he cannot be at peace with anybody else, because of pain, mentally and physically. German Empire made no words, as he steps aside and lets Weimar through.

“Don’t let the children see you… like that.” He hears German Empire whisper, with a significant amount of sympathy in his voice.

“I won’t, father”, Weimar replies back, as he goes upstairs, every single step taking a toll on his abused and injured legs.

Did God make him weak enough to the point he couldn’t even take on two people ambushing him at once? Did God, as he was making he, speculate that he will just be another laughing stock, to be used as a placeholder as he cackles in the heavens above and showcase Weimar to his angels to see how pathetic his creation is? If so, Weimar’s wish would be that he’d be the god of this cursed universe, and being the one to laugh at every pathetic creature he has created thus far.

Then again, he’s cursed to be living here, in this filthy rock, buried in debt.

As he opens his bedroom door and throws his suitcase on his bed, he goes towards the bathroom to freshen up and aid of his wounds. As he starts to apply rolls of bandages on the wounds France and Belgium had inflicted upon to him, he starts to feel boiling anger at the memories flickering back and forth from France and Belgium gloating, to them actually fucking him over near one of his factories. They took his money, they killed the people working in the factory, and worst of all he couldn’t do anything about it. The anger turns from boiling water, to steam, then to a wildfire blazing in anger as he looks at his black eye and his broken eyeglasses in the mirror. It would take him a long time to get new ones, and he is certainly going to enjoy going to meetings and squinting at something he cannot see.

After taking somewhat good care of himself, he closes his bedroom door as he opens one of his drawers to take out a pack of cocaine. If his father would see him basically snorting cocaine, he would’ve been sleeping outside by now. He arranges the cocaine into dozens of rolls, measuring them to see if they are aligned. If there is one thing that relaxes him and puts him in his comfort zone, is seeing everything in order. Everything must be properly measured, must be organized and clean, and must forever be comfortable. If not, he will go insane.

Weimar starts to snort, and he can feel himself reeling in the sheer and pure amount of ecstasy in these addictive drugs, one to put him out of his pain and misery. He can feel himself go numb; he couldn’t feel the wounds, nor couldn’t he feel the sadness he’s been feeling for all his life; drugs are like magic that can be remade into real life.

Then, he hears him.

_“My my, Weimar. You are quite a disappointment to your family, are you not?”_

Weimar turns around, but sees nothing. “Who’s there?” he says in a hostile voice, yet is met with laughter.

_“You cannot see me; I live inside of you.”_

Weimar stares at the joint on his fingers, looking at it with his gold eyes. He feels as if it’s responsible for the voice inside of his head, but he continues to smoke the joint. He then hears the voice laugh, and his spine shivers of how fearsome it sounds.

_“It seems that we can make an arrangement, can we not? Give me your body, and I will guide you and your Germans to victory and salvation. Never again will you be humiliated. You will rule the entire world.”_

Weimar can feel himself getting tempted from this voice inside his head, as he gulps and shakes his head. Although wanting the Allies to leave him and his family alone, he had no interest in taking over the world. Although he can feel his transparent fingers reaching for the status and ranks, to become what they had once been; a powerful entity that will never be crossed once again. But he rapidly shakes his head.

“No.” He says, and he feels the voice from inside of him become surprised at his statement. “I get it, you’re just a hallucination that has formed in my psyche after I have become addicted to cocaine. But your words and bribery will not work on me. Though I may hate the Allies, I do not want the whole world to come to the mercy of my own palms, my palms that will squash everything and everyone. I am sorry, I am not interested.”

Instead of disappearing and dissolving like ashes, the voice cackles. _“Oh, but one day, you will have to come to me eventually.”_

And with that, Weimar drops his joint and runs towards his children’s room, in which he spent the night in dreamless sleep, and to wake up in the morning, dousing in twelve cups of coffee and going to the meeting, being met by jeers. It seems that the gossip of France and Belgium beating him up in an alleyway has reached almost all nations by now. Then again, gossip is a whisper of many unintelligible things being transmitted into the air, like a virus infecting all life on earth, and watching it unfold.

He still tries to forget the voice’s promise, but it’s still stuck on his mind, from days, weeks, and years to come.

Weimar had enough of this. America needed Weimar to repay all his debts now, as the stock market had crashed. And he’s still facing the never-ending torment of the Allies, and the assassination attempts. He’s tired. He wants to pass on this torment and work towards someone, but he just can’t, for he has to stay like this forever. It’s redundant, to keep living in a world where, though unentertaining, it profoundly never ceases to give Weimar pain. Whenever he feels that no one is going to hurt him today, he feels a prick on his back as if iron steels are the whispers and sharp words thrown at him.

And so, with a scream of frustration, he chucks his bottle of beer towards his bedroom window, shattering it to pieces. He kneels, knowing he’s tired of living this life, and he wants to go back to the days when Germany was a glorious and wonderful land.

“Hey, I know you’re still in there; you’re getting pretty popular, huh?”, Weimar says, his voice shaking with madness.

A chuckle resonates around his bedroom. _“Oh? Have you considered my promise?”_

Weimar smiles, tears forming in his eyes, knowing that this will be his last day in the entire world. “I do hope you treat my kids well.”

He screams as he can feel the life being sucked out of him, his skin and insides being inflamed as waves and waves of fire starts to melt him on the inside. He can feel the tears in his eyes touch the cold floors, knowing that today, Weimar will be no more.

* * *

_“Aming ligaya…"_

The Philippines hears the bombs sounding, sailing across the sky, until he ducks into the nearest shelter before a bomb explodes behind him. Panting, reeling, and stumbling, he recovers as quickly as he can from the rupture. The gunfires from the trees towards the advancing Hapon army is futile towards those men. He can feel his legs giving out, running out of breath. He and his army will retreat towards the forests, and sneak out before the Hapon can get to them. 

_"Ng pag-may mang-aapi…"_

Then, a gunshot from behind him hits nearby tree, engraving its bullets into a nearby tree trunk. He feels so sorry for the tree, he didn’t know why, but it doesn’t deserve to get shot by that bastard. 

"Philippines”, Japan Empire says, and Philippines looks at him with a hatred in his eyes, as Japan smirks up at him. “You don’t need to fight. Just give in to me, and you’ll be safe. All you need to do is follow my orders.” 

_“Ang mamatay ng…"_

Philippines lifts his rifle and fires off-handedly towards Japan’s direction, who catches it with just both his hands and examines it, clicking his tongue. 

"So you’ve chosen death”, Japan says, as he approaches Philippines, and the latter steps back. 

“I would rather choose death than get colonized again”, Philippines says as his back hits the tree. There is no escape from Japan. 

“Well, yes, I would kill you right here and there, but I’d say that for later”, Japan looks at one of Philippines’ golden eyes, and he smiles, an idea forming in his head. “I’ll just take one of your eyes as a souvenir from your land." 

_"dahil sayo."_

And with that, Japan corners Philippines into the tree, and Philippines tries to fight him off, but as Japan’s bare hands reach one of his golden eyes, he lets out a high-pitched scream into the air, echoing throughout the forests as the birds flap away from their directions.

* * *

Zhongguo had no idea where Sulian was, or what he was doing, but he can just feel shivers upon his spine when he feels like he’s going to be alone tonight. It’s not normall cold, in his room, it was a warm summer evening, almost as if the sun is directly facing the land itself, but he can’t help but just feel cold. Zhongguo’s hand trembles as he tries to write on his documents, scolding himself for this kind of action.

_I’m just alone for tonight_ , Zhongguo says, as he tries to write, _Sulian is probably doing his business in his land._

But he just can’t help feeling lonely, as he looks at his ring finger, the one where his beautiful golden ring that Sulian had carved for him shines. He smiles at it, feeling himself grow warm, as if the man himself was enveloping him with love. Zhongguo can feel Sulian’s voice on his ear, whispering words to him, and he takes it. The world may not revolve around him, one simple and measly revolution around this miserable planet, but it revolves around the both of them.

He wonders why he feels something is wrong about his union though, as if it’s going to break after a few years, like an old tree in the fields, waiting to be cut down to finally be snuffed out from life, a lit matchstick trying to keep the fire going in a snowy and cold night.

-

It turns out that the whole world _doesn’t_ revolve around them both; shocking, Zhongguo knows. It has been decades since their divorce, decades since they have become strangers never speaking kind words to each other. Their love was a beautiful lie, made up on sugary and sweet words, bittersweet on both of their skin as their warm bodies press together to create some kind of friction and love. It was a long time since Zhongguo decided that he doesn’t need Soviet’s love.

He keeps a straight face during the ceremony, when everyone was there, everyone talking shit about Soviet. He joins too, but he can feel a part of himself breaking and fading away, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He watches Soviet’s former colonies spit onto the jar that holds his ashes, and Zhongguo wants to know what Soviet had looked like before his untimely demise; was he sorry or remorseful for what he’d done? Or was he angered at the prospect of dying, fading away like an insignificant insect that he can slap to death?

“Hello, Zhongguo”, he turns to see one of Soviet’s daughters, Russia, holding a wooden box. It had Mandarin and Russian written on it. “I feel like father will like it if this box will be in your possession.” She gives the box towards Zhongguo’s open arms, and joins in on the fun with making fun of Soviet.

The wooden box is quite heavy, but not by mass; but by with feelings, like the planet of Jupiter made up of too much conflicting feelings to the point it has to become a much more physical object. Zhongguo wants to get rid of the box, but his brain tells him no, it might be his only key to Soviet after their divorce. When everyone started leaving after the funeral and burial, because they have lives, Zhongguo was left alone, staring into nothiness, into a grassy patch in the woods _because they didn’t want to bury him in a proper cemetery._

Then, after all these years, he still had disgusting feelings for Soviet, as his legs start to grow weak and he kneels infront of his grave. Tears start to drop from his eyes, into the ground, a long, overdue, and overwhelming sadness that has been inside of him, beating him up and dropping him to the ground like some toy. He’s not weak. He’s never weak. He’ll never become some insignificant spec of light in this universe, never in a million years. Zhongguo’s sobs start to grow louder, until even the trees share his sadness as they let his sobs echo, an apology to Soviet.

-  
He reads the letters all in the box, the rings given to him, feeling numb, feeling like he’d done the wrong choice of making everyone stop minding his business. Maybe he was too overwhelmed by these revelations, maybe he was just lonely. These letters tell of a side of the man he had once loved the most, a side where he was remorseful of what he had done to their marriage, and Zhongguo didn’t know if he can forgive him or not; they were both damned to have pride in their personality. He wonders if he had truly moved on from him, in the past thirty years.

* * *

The dark sky is quite nice today, the breeze cold as the skin of his enemies- whenever he touches them in the battlefield, he pushes the sword into the enemy’s chest, and he watches them stumble onto the ground, wheezing, choking, and trying to hold on to their breathes desperately. He sighs, closing his eyes, as he unravels his armor in his secret patches of gardens, looking towards the glowing moon, and he wonders how magnificent its light is, to shine in the night which such gleam and joy. His hands find what he is looking for- the poison that can kill an empire so fast and dangerously, to the point that he will be nothing but a cold husk in the morning, devoid of life.

And who would miss him? The flowers wilt underneath his palms, the sign of death to wherever he goes, and he feels the crushing weight of despair tearing him apart, as he raises one of his hands to reveal bits of himself falling apart ever so slightly, like a fire burning itself out for too long, and it must turn to ash quickly. No one will miss him, no one else but the people who has lived under his rule.

He pulls the cork, and drinks the poison, and chugs it down with lightning speed; he feels like a rock, many rocks, have been pounded onto his head, he feels a thousand degrees in his throat, and he chokes for a little, the taste bile in his mouth, but he keeps on going, the liquid burning his throat all the more. Then, stumbling, he drops the bottle, feeling nothing but a thousand wounds upon his body, a thousand knives puncturing his chest to reach his heart, and screams continue to flood his ears, and he sees nothing more than the sky and the stars, little specs of nothing but white dots in the sky.

They are the witness to the death of the Roman Empire, and he dies.

Then he is alive.

* * *

Teikoku’s feet walk over the corpse that used to be his wife, her crimson blood spreading towards the floors. And yet all he does is look around, horribly unhinged at the display of the gruesome image. His hands were still on his back, crimson red eyes staring ahead, sometimes looking around the dark room, yet his clothes and hands were bloody of the crime he had committed. Many a great ghosts are screaming at him, telling him what a terrible crime he has done, but it seems that he can block out even the greatest curses. He looks at Ryukyu’s dark brown eyes, surprise lingering inside of it before she gets shot. She was supposed to kill him, before he became someone else. But he wasn’t a fool. Tokugawa was stupid enough to trust Ryukyu to do her job properly.

As if he was respectful, he leans down and closes her eyes, because of how unsettling it was, like she was monitoring him in the afterlife. Teikoku decides to announce her death first thing in the morning, to make it an excuse to take Okinawa and Hokkaido, who were residing in her territories.

Teikoku wipes his bloodied hands on his uniform, staining it even more, but he’ll let himself wash his own uniform. He walks towards Ryukyu’s bed; their beds were separate, like two dimensions unwilling to collide nor meet each other, despite being aware of their existence. He kneels down to look under Ryukyu’s bed, wondering how many secrets she has kept from him his entire life.

The first one he took out was a worn blade of kris, cold and lumpy underneath his touch, but he knows it can be effective against an opponent. Perhaps that’s why she was so busy rummaging underneath her bed. Maybe she wanted to kill him with this.

Teikoku, underneath the soft moonlight, can read some words inticrated into the blade of kris. Teikoku tilts his head, trying to get what language it’s written, only to find out it was in Javanese. Teikoku sighs, wondering why they can’t just put it into Japanese, but tries his best to translate it.

_Cinta abadi saya, Ruuchu-kuku,_

_This may be my last gift to you, before I get eaten up and collapse. I have been working on this gift ever since we have come together, when the god from above tied us towards each other, our strings of fate becoming a knot. This blade has my blood in it, let it guide you towards your years. If you are in danger, you may use this, for I will always be with you._

_Kesayangan anda, Kesultanan Melayu Melaka._

As Teikoku finishes reading, he furrows his brows, looking up into the night sky, feeling the man himself was up above, weeping and looking at Ryukyu Okoku’s body. Was he monitoring her? Was he weeping the stars after seeing her body?

Teikoku laughs, as he hopes so, and he plunges the blade into Okoku’s body, leaving her there.

“ _Norowa reta koibito_ ”, he says as he leaves the crime scene with a red uniform.

* * *

His days are numbered.

The sakura trees sing of his fate.

There is something evil inside of him, waiting until his guard is not up. Tokugawa sighs, exhausted, looking at the mirror with tired eyes. His dark hair was messy, unkept and not as neatly composed as it was before.

Curse that western barbarian, wanting to open this country.

Curse Satsuma and Cheshu, who want the emperor back on the throne again.

Curse he himself for letting this happen.

He digs his fingers into the wooden table, wanting nothing but absolute peace in his land; why can’t he get the easiest thing? It was just tranquility and peace, as he enjoys the rest of his life under the sakura trees, writing poems and talking with his beloved samurai.

Why can’t he just have that?

Then again, there is something evil inside of him, waiting to be released. There was a promise. A promise that he will get what he wants- the sun on his face as he serenely makes himself tea.

Tokugawa looks back at the mirror, now finding a pair of crimson red staring back at him, a large grin on his face.

Tokugawa breathes, then touches the mirror, its smooth surface… warm.

“ _Taisho_.”

And he can feel another hand reaching for his, and pulling him into the mirror.

* * *

They enter one of the abandoned houses in the town, neglected and old under their footsteps. They hear the sounds of a chandelier from up above them, and they gulp, feeling a sense of dread in their chest, but they have a date. And by a date, a history project they have to finish at the end of the day, and they must pass it tomorrow. So, they close the door, creaking and thudding, making them envelop the darkness. They bring out a flashlight, a limited spirit of light shining in the monster of darkness, the mouth of a whale.

The floors under them were loose and moldy, and they wonder if the floors longed to be bedazzled and cleaned again, to be stepped on, to be in a house where every thing is light, now dark. They look at the furniture, all full of dust and cobwebs, perhaps longing to be used. Perhaps waiting for their owner to sell them if the owner himself didn’t have the heart of using all of them anymore.

They make their way upstairs, hoping not to be jumped by many a phantoms crawling through the night, scaring them to the point they’ll run outside and never return. How much of time wasted to find this place. Then, they hear shuffling, a sign of human life in this dreary and dark house, old and forever standing and waiting to be demolished, but has to wait. They follow the sound of shuffling feet, a hand on their pockets to make sure they actually have a dollar to offer him.

The eye of the Middle East. The Holy Land.

They shine their light towards the right door, the light from the room spilling into the dim hallways. They didn’t have to wander through these empty, sad and horrifying hallways anymore, for they have found what they are looking for. They try not to make a sound as they approach the door, its worn wood soft to their touch. They can hear humming from the other side. With a deep breath, they knock on the door.

The humming stops, and they can hear the opening of the door, and there stood a man with dark hair and sky blue eyes, which were looking at theirs.

“Come in, dear.” He disappears back to the room, and they follow suit, closing the door behind them. He takes one paper cup from his desk and turns to the water dispenser beside him, which was - surprisingly - full.

They find a chair that was neither old nor new, and sits on it as he forwards them the glass of water, completely full and cold. They take a drink of it, and put it back down, searching their pockets before putting two dollars on the table.

“I gave you what you want”, they say with a voice of higher authority, “now spill.”

Israel looks unhinged at their statement, but they take the money offered to him. He looks at the window, which was plastered and covered. “What would you like to know?”

* * *

The Third Reich, the Reich that was said to last a thousand years, is crumbling. His army is now running towards safety, as the Allies march over to Berlin to get him. His legs are tired, having ran over many miles to get away from the revenge-thirsty Allies, their claws now expanding towards his domain, his capital. He didn’t know what happened to West and East, and he didn’t care, as he reaches his destination; where it all started, where the weak man gave into his promises.

It was war-torn and ruined, smelling of beer and corpses, blood seemingly seeping out of the windows. It was where he had manifested, like a parasite inside of a host, the manifestation of that man’s anger, sadness, hatred and frustration. He hears the zooming of the airplanes, bombing buildings, its explosions nerve wracking as he goes inside, back to the past.

It looks neglected and mistreated, but it was the home he had ransacked and unwove to show its true, bleak colors. He races upstairs, back, back to the weakling’s room where he had made a deal with Third Reich. He can feel souls screaming out for him, wanting to tear him apart for what he has done. He reaches the room, slamming the door open, its thud echoing through the haunted hallways.

Third Reich walks towards the drawer, knowing that it was there. The gun that that weakling had owned. He had wanted to kill himself, but Reich manipulated him not to, because, after all, he needed him. He needed him alive until he finally gives in, like a block of dominos falling over after a strong force of wind push them back after strong resistance.

He opens to find the first thing in there, the gun. It was dusty, unused for many years after his usurping of his body. And now, he’s going to put an end to his life with this. Third Reich looks at it, then feels the ground shaking as another bomb hits somewhere near his hiding. Reich was never afraid of death, as he points the gun to his head. Death can be gentle, death can be rough, but everyone can feel their sweet release of their last breath before Death’s bony fingers carry them to the afterlife.

And so he pulls the trigger, dropping to the ground.

-

Weimar wakes up with a terrible, horrible headache, as if something is - once again - inside of him, wanting to be let out. He groans, his limbs feeling like someone squished him, like a grand hydraulic press pressing down upon him to mesh him with what they wanted, forever mishapening him. His ears are ringing, but outside of that he can hear hushed voices. Voices that belong to the other side. Weimar frowns, his vision blurry like he was in the water, trying to make out even the darkest figures.

He sees someone, four people, standing right in front of him, and he is brought back to the times of humiliation and sadness, and a bubbling feeling rises from his stomach, wanting to empty himself. He tries to breathe, but all he does is cough up blood, letting others’ attention gravitate to him.

“Look who just woke up”, Weimar looks up to find Soviet Union’s golden eye staring right back at him, the side of his face roughly bandaged, tinged with red.

Weimar hears a sigh, “This man…” He turns - his neck hurting - to find the United Kingdom, heavily bruised and missing an arm and their wings. Did Weimar miss something?

“I thought he was gone forever.” He hears the third one, knowing it was America, her voice ringing through his ears.

He hears a groan, and a kick on the floorboards. “Lock him up. If he starts to display the behavior of Third Reich, then I have the liberty to shoot him.” Weimar doesn’t want to look up once again, but he knows it was Frankreich who said that. Only one question swirls around his mind; who is Third Reich? Before dropping to the ground, exhausted for even moving a tiny bit.

And once he is in the dreamworld, he can feel the great gods above him laughing at his predicament, as they finally give him the memories he needed but hated, playing tug of war with him until he finally weeps blood that will flow like a river.

* * *

Coughs. Gasps. Blood. Blood drips out of his mouth, as he coughs and hacks more, wondering what is going on with him. He is well aware of his state, and how it became to be; his decline. It seems that he is also not immune to the catalysts of an empire, the dreaded loss to their territories and numbers, as they look in to the mirrors, their body turning to ashes as they crumble with their own empire.

It is a shame that he has fallen to one of the most mundane of deaths in history books. Soviet looks at the mirror, touching the glass with his trembling, disintegrating hand, knowing that he shall never see this world again, knowing that he will visit the other side as soon as he closes his eyes.

Which is why he doesn’t wallow in misery. Soviet Union, with his remaining eye, spies something golden in one of the relfective cases, and he limps towards it, feeling his lungs burn and his veins scream out in pain as he feels the urge of coughing up blood again. He fights back against it, as he, with trembling hands and feet, reach for the case. Soviet opens it, the golden ring matching his, and he can feel it burning his finger.

It was Zhongguo’s wedding ring, the one he had thrown to Soviet Union in response to their argument, announcing their marriage annuled. It broke the man’s heart, but he had to respect his love’s wishes, no matter how hurt he feels. One glance at the ring is enough to bring him memories of happiness, back when he thought that the world revolved around him and Zhongguo, about how their love is eternal. And after a decade they became strangers with each others’ secrets.

Soviet Union coughs once again, droplets of blood touching the gold surface of the ring, and he realizes he has no time for this madness that is called love. He looks at his palms once again, the non-existent wind giving it way, the molecules of his palms unwinding to become nothing more than a particle. He can feel his whole body falling apart, and he looks at Zhongguo’s ring, its gold surface silent.

As he can feel himself fully disintegrating, he decides to apologize to the love of his life, the only person to make him feel regret and sadness.

“ _Izvini… Chzhungo…_ ”

And he disappears, as if he was never there the first place.

* * *

Zhongguo had never had company in his quiet and lonely house before, until now. What was once many, different people haunting him and making him fear for his life, now act like brothers. They laugh, they cry, they cause non-existent chaos in the household. It seems as if the side effects of killing Miguo is getting his curse and also being haunted by a deformed figure of him until Zhongguo finally buries all of their bodies in respectable graves.

Zhongguo was really stupid, not really thinking why his brothers were haunting him until the third week, when he’s decided he went mad to even schedule himself a therapist. He took a quick search on the internet, and finds out all about how to make the ghost at peace. Of course, finding all of his brothers’ bodies was tedious, luckily enough, some of his brothers - whom he didn’t bother - agreed to help him.

_“Not because we like you, no”, Boxer had said, “it’s because the way our brothers behave is kind of getting overwhelming.”_

And once he does the deed, everyone were now at peace with themselves. And at last, he and Minguo finally talked to each other in what felt like years, with no negative feelings towards each other. Zhongguo’s also been apologetic to Diguo, who had helped him with finding the bodies.

As he goes to the kitchen early in the morning, messy hair and tired eyes, he is met with his brothers bickering with each other, arguing about something minimal. The noise irritates Zhongguo, but he can’t really do anything about it as he trudges to the coffee machine to stimulate him in the morning. He pours one for himself and starts to drink, feeling himself slowly waking to meet the sunrise of the day.

As he walks towards the living room, everyone, who were busy arguing, cease their talking in favor of looking at Zhongguo, who makes his way over the sofas, eyes half closed.

“You look awful”, Diguo speaks up, earning a smack from Minguo.

“Shut up”, Zhongguo says, sipping on his coffee. “I always look like this in the morning.”

“Really? Not the prim and proper man during the meetings?” Ma clique playfully jokes, and Zhongguo sighs, feeling a migraine forming in his head. He wonders how his older brother can ever manage their brothers.

“Now now, leave Zhongguo and his morning face alone”, Manchukuo says with a light smile on his face, and turns back to Zhongguo, “are you going to eat breakfast?”

Zhongguo raises a brow. “This _is_ my breakfast.”

The brothers look at each other, clearly concerned for him, and Minguo sighs.

“Zhongguo, I know you don’t take orders from me, but-”

He is interrupted when Zhongguo abruptly stands from his seat, and makes his way to the kitchen, coming back with a bowl of cereal and milk. Boxer shrieks at the looks of it, exclaiming it was western, while the others roll their eyes. Zhongguo’s remaining amber eye looks at Minguo’s remaining eye, something shining in them as he starts to eat.

Minguo smiles, and the house transforms into a nice silence of sorts.

* * *

Renmin’s fingers float on the keyboard, as he looks at what he was writing before pressing the backspace key and rewriting once more, feeling the raw energy of trying to finish this document in an hour. There was another meeting for the day, and he was going to have a presentation with them. Poor him, slacking off and constantly going on smoke breaks to excuse himself for never finishing his power point. He sighs, as he takes a sip of his mug full of black coffee, savoring its bitterness before typing nonsensical words to fit with his writing goal.

Renmin never imagined how silent the house is without his brothers constantly pestering him around. His brows furrow, as he types in more words, checking its grammar and whatnot before realizing he hasn’t heard his brothers for a while. Renmin frowns; he knows the loved bothering him with his work, loved making fun of him, so why weren’t they irritating him with their ridiculous stories right now? He only shrugs as he continues his work, and stops once he gets to a thousand words. He stops and feels himself becoming a bit slack. Renmin takes a sip of his black coffee, wondering why his brothers had left him alone (and lonely, but he is too prideful to even say that) in a silent house.

Then he remembers something Manchukuo told him during the days he was finding all of his brothers’ bodies to give them all a proper burial.

_“If you want to call us, just say our names three times.”_

Renmin sighs, deciding to do just that; after all, he needs some break from typing this crap, so he takes it upon himself to call for the first person he never thought he’d call by his first name.

“Diguo”, he says three times, and a warp like image spins across the room with a white light, making it hard for him to look directly, without burning his eyes. It was a blaze of fire, a ring of nothing but brightness, ever so golden, just like the great gold jewelry worn by the royalty back in the days. And Diguo manifests right in front of him, as bright as the amber sun.

“What do you want?”, Diguo asks, tone demanding. “I was having an argument with Manchukuo and _I was winning_.”

Renmin takes a sip of his coffee once again, and, despite wanting Diguo to stay with him and provide him company, he gives him a grin. “Just to annoy you.”

Diguo sighs, albeit fondly, “Of course you would.”

* * *

His back is turned when Teikoku finds him in his room. Teikoku grabs his gun, deciding to shoot him at the back with Joseon unaware. As he points the gun towards Joseon, the old man turns to Teikoku to give him lifeless gray eyes that used to be lively before. Joseon’s eyes lock with Teikoku’s crimson ones, before turning back to the floors, all filled with Ming’s paintings and poetry. Teikoku pulls the trigger and Joseon’s lifeless body falls to the ground.

“At least you’re with Ming in the blessed Afterlife, hm?”, Teikoku says with a sigh.

(this one is a part from @redffeather on tumblr, pls check her out)

There was no response from Joseon as Teikoku knelt down to face him, blank, glossy eyes staring back as crimson trailed down his face. Slowly, JE extracted the folded piece of paper from Joseon’s hands, still warm as if he were alive. Unfurling it, he found a letter.

_Wode Ai Chaoxian,_

_I see my empire crumbling before me, the Mandate of Heaven has left me and so have you. I weep as this young barbarian from the north has subjugated you brutally and your absence has left me empty. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I see no way out of this bloodshed. I don’t have much time left._

_I’ll be by the pagoda tree just outside the palace, but I beg of you not to come find me. I’m sorry my love, I can only hope to see you once again in the next life._

_Ming._

Teikoku mutters something about these accursed lovers, doomed to be eaten up by their own corruption and stubborness, as he rips the paper and scatters it towards the wind, erasing a piece of history from existence.

-

Joseon, with desperation and worry swirling up inside of him, runs towards the Forbidden City, which was now ransacked by those bastard’s soldiers. Joseon pants, his lungs burning and his legs giving out and hurting, but he pays no mind to this, only to get to where Ming is said to be. He goes through the court, full of dead bodies, both of Ming’s beloved children and soldiers, mixed with the guilty crimson of that northener’s soldiers.

He races towards the garden, it’s relieving beauty laughing at him, pointing fingers at him, telling him he has failed and that he is too late. Joseon tries to keep those voices embodying the flowers and trees, as he tries to find Ming.

And he finds him, his body hanging on a tree.

Joseon now can feel despair crawling into his throat, and he kneels down, his gray eyes looking to Ming’s golden eyes, that used to be so beautiful and lively, now dead.

A loud and piercing cry erupted from the gardens, and the garden laughed at him back with their terrible fates.

-

Qing coughs up crimson onto his hand, and he sighs as he puffs out a pipe of opium, its addiction a seductress, leading him back, back towards the bed he had no reason to keep warm off. But opium is a tricky woman, tricking him into coming back once the days starts to revolve. Qing looks at the stars, knowing that the olden Ming Dynasty is residing there, the little bright dots small poems for his… beloved, Joseon.

He blanched at that thought, remembering the time Joseon tried to fight he, the stronger and agile one, and ultimately winning. Qing had laughed at him, telling him that that old bastard deserved it, the karma has come to him and he must be dealt with in an easy way. It was sickening, that those two were loves, two men caught in the goddess of love’s fingers like a sickening game.

It seems that he is becoming corrupt, his grand and glorious power diminished after this addiction of a life time, bordering insanity that he will embrace when he lets go of what is stopping him, the regality and comforts of the court, oh how he loved it.

But of course, the circle of life continues, as he lost his Mandate of Heaven now.

Every thing must come full circle, back to the start, back to the past where the great dynasties began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations and references:  
> Aming ligaya, ng 'pag may mang-aapi, ang mamatay ng dahil sayo- But it is glory ever, when thou art wronged  
> For us thy sons to suffer and die.
> 
> Zhongguo- People's Republic of China
> 
> Sulian- Soviet Union
> 
> Teikoku- Japan Empire
> 
> Cinta abadi saya- my eternal love
> 
> Kesayangan anda- your love
> 
> Kesultanan Melayu Melaka- Malaccan Sultanate
> 
> Norowa reta koibito- damned lovers
> 
> Ruuchu-Kuku- Ryukyu Kingdom in Okinawan
> 
> Taisho- deal
> 
> Frankreich- France
> 
> Izvini Chzhungo- I'm sorry China
> 
> Minguo- Taiwan
> 
> Diguo- Empire of China
> 
> Ma Clique- a clique prominent during the Warlord's Era in China
> 
> Renmin- China
> 
> Wode Ai Chaoxian- My Love, Joseon
> 
> also if you're confused to the names of... a _lot_ of countries, most of them are historical countries, and you should check them all out


	22. let's get these teen hearts beating, faster, faster!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Germany shows up at France’s doorstep and one time France shows up on his (kinda).

**1.**

France hates Germany. Germany doesn't seem to understand why.

 _Of course_ , France thinks as she looks out the window, somewhat enjoying the calm morning that the world has provided for her as she takes a sip of her warm coffee. _Of course that foolish boy doesn't get it. He is just like his family before him_.

France sighs as she looks at the bright sun, remembering how she used to bask in its warmth during the Jazz Ages, glare towards the shining ball during the Great Depression, and long for it, reaching towards the bars of her cell, trying to find warmth in the shining, round ball that has always been a part of her life for over a thousand years. And now, she completely loathes mornings, hating the way the rays of that cursed sun shine underneath her curtains, the way they bug her from her beauty sleep as she reminds herself that it's another day in this world, and she is still - thankfully - alive.

Then she hears a knock on the door. France perks up, wondering who it was since her only visitors only visit her once a week, and not twice. She's not gonna lie- it feels lonely being alone in a house, all by herself. But she tells herself that it was fine, that she was independent from negative thoughts inflicted by others. She approaches the door and opens it, and much to her irritation and the notion of her day being ruined, she is faced with that small boy that Britain and America took in.

Allemagne was shorter than France by a few inches, his skinny legs shaking as he handles a bouquet of purple hyacinths. France scowls as she looks at the flowers, staring back at her with pleading eyes. She may not be an expert on flower analogy but Netherlands taught her what this means; purple hyacinth tells the person they are being given to that their giver was sorry. She crosses her arms, eyes looking down at Allemagne, his eyes obscured by those annoyingly large glasses. He looked so much like his father, France can't help but think he'll become like his miserable father in the future.

"What do you want?", France demands bluntly, and the boy starts to shake even more under her intimidating gaze and voice. She can't help but scoff, remembering Weimar's reaction when meeting her. France can feel paranoia drip inside her veins as she can see the foolish boy in front of her turn to something else in the future.

"Um...", the miserable boy in front of her breaks eye contact, looking anywhere else but France. He awkwardly adjusts his shirt and hair and looks back at her with an awkward smile, and France wants to wipe that smile off his face. He forwards the bouquet towards her. "F-for you, Frankreich."

France didn't think twice before slamming the door right in front of Germany's face, feeling her face heat up with anger. This boy's family had tormented her in real life and in her dreams, and now he wishes to bully her by giving her flowers that meant apology? That he was _sorry_ for what his family has done to her? She vows that this boy will become a chore to her as time goes on.

She waits for the boy to leave, to rid of himself from her world. She doesn't want to see him again, she doesn't want to speak to him, she doesn't want his name back in her life again, remembering his father, grandfather, great-grandfather come and intervene with her life. After a few minutes, she opens the door again, to find the boy - to her pleasure - gone, but in his wake he leaves the bouquet of purple hyacinths behind. She glares at it, like the flowers had done something wrong, but knowing these will wilt in due time so she takes them in, but not before looking around to see if anyone was watching her.

She takes out a glass vase from her closet, fills it with water, and put the bouquet on it. France places the vase on her small dining table, loving the way it looks glorious underneath the rays of the sun.

France hopes that Germany doesn't ruin her morning tomorrow, wishing to spend some quiet time with herself before work time.

**2.**

It seems that Germany has the intent to ruin her mornings after all.

As she makes herself a cup of coffee to increase her productivity at work, a knock on the door sounds. She sighs as she turns the stove off, and opens the door. Much to her irritation and surprise, Germany was at her porch once again, holding another flower bouquet but this time it was irises. Netherlands had told her these flowers symbolizes friendship, and she looks at it with disgust evident in her eyes. This boy is suggesting becoming friends and allies with her? Absolutely not.

"I-I t-think w-we-", Germany stutters and France becomes impatient.

"Speak up, boy", France interrupts him. "I have a hard time hearing you all the way here."

Germany clears his throat as he pushes his glasses to the bridge of his nose. "I think we can both be f-friends."

France can't help a small snort escape her lips, "Us? _Friends_?"

Germany tilts his head, "You make it seem like it's impossible for us to be friends."

France stops laughing, realizing that this skinny, malnourished boy in front of her was serious of being friends. She glares at Germany, and to her hidden delight, he cowers before her. "Of course it is you idiot- your family has been my enemy for centuries, and you think that you could change that? A few years from now you'll bug and pester me more than what you're doing now."

"T-that's not true!", Germany exclaims, handling the bouquet of irises gently. "I think we can be good friends, if we can both just-"

France didn't let Germany finish as she slams the door right on his face, causing him to stumble backwards. On the other side the woman he was trying to woo was noticeably scowling, crossing her arms as she lets out a shriek of displeasure. This boy was frustrating- he couldn't take any hints! He shows up on her door the second time with a bouquet of irises that symbolize friendship - _friendship!_ \- on her doorstep. She loathes the boy with all her willpower, vowing to never forgive him and his family.

After a few more minutes she opens the door, seeing the bouquet of irises planted innocently on her porch. She sighs as she takes it in, secretly loving the way their colors swirl around her and her path, taking another dusty old vase from her closet and places the bouquet near the window sill.

**3.**

Of course, Germany tries again with his inconsolable offer of friendship on the third day. She hears a knock on the door as she makes herself French toast, and she groans, hoping to god it wasn't that exasperating boy again.

Truth be told, it _is_ him, with another bouquet of flowers, this time with violets, meaning peace.

 _There is no such thing as peace in this world_ , France thinks as she scowls at the flowers, holding the door and ready to slam it on Germany's face.

"I feel like these violets can, um, s-symbolize us starting over again?", Germany says awkwardly in his small voice. "I-I just want to g-get to know y-you better, Ma'am France."

"And I want you to get out of my sight." With that, France closes the door, softer this time, as she leans against it, sighing, running a hand over her hair. When will he take a hint?

She hears a faint sniffle from behind the door, knowing it was Germany, before it fades away with the steps he carry. She opens the door again, to find the bouquet of violets lying so quietly on her porch so she does the same thing she does with it and places the vase of violets on the small coffee table at the center of her living room.

**4.**

Netherlands and Belgium were there when Germany's fourth visit occurs. She was talking to Netherlands about small topics, until he notices the vase seated on the middle of her table. He points it out towards France, who huffs and complains of Germany's three previous visits- Germany's lovesick eyes and stammering disposition, the way he fixes his glasses whenever he is anxious, his awkward smile and his concerningly small stature and skinny physique. Netherlands and Belgium nods through her story-telling, exchanging a few glances of knowing as she finishes her experience with the German boy.

Netherlands thinks for a moment, taking a sip of the coffee as he looks at France with an interested impression. "It seems that Duitsland has taken a profound interest in you, France."

France blinks, confused. "E-excuse me?"

Netherlands sighs. "The flowers, goddamn it. Next thing you know Germany'd be knocking on your door with a bouquet of roses in his hand."

France groans. "I'll punch his lights out if he ever dares consider loving me."

"Mom, I think that's rude for you to say to him", Belgium blurts in as she takes a bite of her waffles. "He just really wants to be friends with you."

"Belgium, it's impossible for me and a German to ever be friends", France defends. "We'll be rivals once Germany is in his late sixties."

" _Rivals in bed_ ", Netherlands mutters under his breath before masking it with a cough.

A small rap sounds from the door and France sighs, swearing to the god above. Netherlands motion for her to open the door, to keep Germany entertained. She opens the door to find, of course, Germany. The small boy's appearance is very worrying; he had multiple cuts and bruises on his arms, looking like tiny red lines. Beneath his eyes were dark circles, his forest green eyes reflecting stress and sadness. He is holding another bouquet of flowers, this time red carnations. She looks at it, the petals as red as blood dripping through her skin, plump and waiting for her to take it and accept Allemagne as more than an ally she can tolerate.

"I really admire you, Franckreich", Germany says through pants, sounding tired, his voice soft and breaking. "I think that you're a beautiful, interesting, and smart person to be with. I feel something deep inside me that-"

"Duitsland, it's nice to see you again!", Netherlands approaches them as he puts an arm around France's shoulder.

France looks towards Germany, but something about his display changes; his awkwardness and tense posture has become stiff, his awkward smile replaced with a thin line on his lips, eyes flaring up with... _jealousy_?

" _Es ist schön dich wieder zu sehen, Niederlande_ ", Germany replies flatly, his eyebrows furrowing, his grip on the bouquet tightening. "Are you and Frankreich...?"

Netherlands shakes his head with a laugh. "Oh nee, me and France are just being _vrienden_!"

Germany purses his lips, clearly not convinced, before his eyes set back on France. "For you, mein dame." He gives the red carnations to France, and she accepts it with no fight. Without another word, he leaves quietly, his walk and stance defeated. France realizes it is the first time she sees him walk away from her home.

When she closes the door, she glares at Netherlands, who was playing innocent and Belgium stifling her laughter.

"What was that display all about?", she demands, humiliation boiling. "I thought we agreed we were only _copains_ , Netherlands."

Netherlands shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. "It seems that Duitsland is jealous."

France looks at him with confusion. "What are you talking about?"

The man observes the red carnations in France's arms, putting a finger on his chin, then looks back at the woman with an emotionless expression.

"Yep, he loves you", Netherlands says.

"How would you know that?"

Netherlands rolls his eyes. "Red carnations mean either admiration or 'my heart aches for you' or Duitsland means them both."

France looks at the red carnations, conflicting feelings arising inside of her. Part of her tells her she wants it, she oh so wants another relationship, another romance to bloom and in its wake a wilted flower will form as the god of love make them drift apart over the years. She listens to another part of her brain, telling her that Allemagne doesn't need a chance; she doesn't want him, she doesn't need him in her life, she hates him and all his family members that had come before him.

Voices starts to swirl in her mind, rocking her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, as she can feel tendrils of loop upon her skin, controlling every inch of her body as she listens to those words.

Hate him.

Hate him.

Hate him.

But a single thought rams through her mind, a mile stone in all the other voices.

_Hate him?_

With a frustrated growl, she throws the bouquet of red carnations to the floors, crumpling it, its smell making her even more infuriated. She starts to stomp on it, the walls inside of her breaking, as Netherlands and Belgium watches her destroy such beautiful flowers. France hates him, she shouldn't doubt it, he'll be just like his family, and they will be enemies, forever and ever.

She pants as she looks at the trampled heap of flowers on her floors, unrecognizable, their lush red petals covered in the imprints of her shoes. The floors were moist, but she has no care of that by now. She looks at Netherlands and Belgium, who were both looking at the flowers dejectedly.

"Does that mean you don't accept Germany?", Belgium asks.

"No", France replies, shaking her head. "If he dares show up at my doorstep again, I will personally implant my fist on his face."

**5.**

She was at the door when she feels Allemagne's presence. She slams the door open to find Germany, awkward as ever, with another bouquet of flowers, this time - disgustingly enough - a red rose. One of the most famous symbols of love. She didn't even give the boy time to speak as she clenches her fists and decks Allemagne straight in the face. He stumbles and lands on the steps of the porch, his nose bleeding and cheeks swelling. His green eyes let out a look of surprise and shock, his nose bleeding- it seems it cannot withstand a simple deck then. She looks at the flowers that Allemagne had dropped, the roses laughing at her, mocking her of her existence. With an infruriated scream, she stomps on it the same way she had stepped on the carnations, destroying them, defiling them. Allemagne shrieks for her to stop, but she kicks the remains of the flowers to his face.

She approaches him with an undefinable fury, her surroundings sweltering with fire, their waves spreading like a glorious crown all around her.

"Get up, _boy_ ", France seethes. With trembling legs he complies. She scoffs at how scared and intimidated Allemagne was, a flicker of a memory with her and Weimar interacting occuring in her brain, and she laughs at Allemagne's figure. "It seems you truly are like your father; a timid, lonely man, sensitive to the lightest of things. You can't even stand a punch without bleeding. How weak, how humiliating."

"F-Frankreich-"

"Get out of my sight and never come back!", she barks, and the skinny, little boy bolts, stumbling as he runs across town.

After he becomes just a shadow in her line of sight, she sighs heavily as she calms down, letting in a steady breath of air, looking towards the lawn to look at the devastated roses that were crushed beneath her. She feels empty, like there was no satisfaction of taunting a poor boy inside of her, feeling sadness conquer her veins as she tries to fend them away. She knows this feeling all too well.

Regret.

**-1.**

"That's the stupidest shit you've ever done", Britain says as they click their tongue, trying to tune their electric guitar's strings correctly.

Britain had dropped by the weekend after the whole Allemagne fiasco, pointing a finger at her and demanding her if she was the one who injured the boy. She screamed a yes, feeling frustrated over her conflicting emotions. Britain had sighed and comforted her as she starts to cry.

"Well, what was I meant to do?", France asks, and Britain snorts.

"Not deck him that hard?", Britain replies as they start to strum, creating a sense of music floating around her. "Seriously, what kind of joke were you playing, punching him? Even America is concerned and she _never_ gets concerned."

"Mon dieu, Bretagne, would it kill you to stop making me regret the shit I pulled?", France asks them and they let out a light snort.

"Never", they say as they unceremoniously strum the electric guitar again, before their face contorts to a serious look. "You should go and apologize to him, though. He means well."

"Even if I apologize, I bet he's gonna start having a grudge on me", France says with a knowing smirk, faltering for a bit as she remembers his family looking down upon her with the same hateful glares. "Just like all the others."

Britain releases a whistle of a melody exasperatedly. "He doesn't hold grudges. Me and America know that by heart now. No matter how much you try and break the poor boy's spirit he just..." Britain's hands ghost over their metal arm, made by Germany himself, "...never seems to break."

"But he likes me!", France responds, "who the hell would like someone that fucking decked them on the face?"

"He still likes you, you idiot."

"What?"

"I swear I heard him sniffling about you while he's sleeping yesterday, you dense woman."

"L-likes me?" Genuine surprise comes from France once again, as she is faced with the prospect of someone actually liking her once again entering her mind. She considered herself likeable for only her looks, and she assumes that Germany likes her because of that as well. But there was something in him. The way he brings her bouquets and make her question the flower analogy, his awkward smiles, the jealous glance he threw at Netherlands, his helpless look as he runs back to his home, defeated.

He was genuine.

That was what she was missing.

She suddenly stands up, Britain looking at her, appropriately disinterested for her will to get Germany back.

"First of all, I need to go pay a visit to Netherlands."

-

Germany's arms hurt. Perhaps because he has let the blade sink into his skin once again, feeling the lines hurt and echo trhough him as he tries hard not to wince. The feeling of pain can appease his growing emotions of France, as the woman who had rejected him over and over make him an emotional mess, turmoil spreading from head-to-toe, maddeningly in love with her. He didn't feel the slightest bit of anger for his broken nose, deeming it a minor inconvenience as he had made the wrong move first. Of course France would not like him showing up to her doorstep, intrude on the little time she has to herself. When she had turned down his love, he was heartbroken, his arms screaming at him to stop this pain, as he cleans them up and wraps them in neat bandages, hiding them with his formal suits and waist coats.

He hears the voice of Britain from downstairs, and he knows that they have a guest over since they seem to be talking to someone else. Germany gets off the bed, preparing to look and act plastic as he puts on an undershirt that covers his recent wounds, and opens the door to the outside, into the hallways. He has gotten used to the winding staircase he had once called a way to heaven, a way to all the prayers he has been answered for his life. But then, he had thought to himself; he can't be in heaven if he has murdered thousands, millions of innocent people and soldiers under the watchful eye of his father-turned monster.

He remembers tears staining his pillow every night, trying to mimic an angel's voice and song.

As his feet land on the carpeted floors (Great Britain was never one for revealing floors) his eyes land on a familiar figure, and he stops cold.

Frankreich, as beautiful and as graceful as ever, was holding a bouquet of what he has given her for the past five days- purple hyacinths, irises, violets, red carnations and roses. She was talking to Britain, who was leaning against a counter and holding a cup of tea. Germany can feel envy surge up as he sees France laugh at something Britain had said. Then France takes notice of him, her smile fading as she and Germany stare at each other, wondering who was going to speak up first. Britain murmurs something about leaving them to it, as they make their way upstairs.

Germany can feel France's stare, her eyes never leaving him as it tries to break his walls down to a single cell. He thinks that maybe it was because of his appearance. He had never brushed his hair yet, light hair dancing upon his eyes and head like an imperial crown. Perhaps ir was the broken nose, or the dark circles. In any case, he blames himself for being too unhygienic-

"Your arms", France blurts after a minute of silence, approaching him and taking a close look towards one of his arms. Germany shakes, feeling the warmth of France's hand on his newly bandaged arm, as he flinches due to the pain she has inflicted. Germany did not fight as she uncovers her arms, full of scabs, blisters and light scars; the most recent ones were tinged red. France looks up at Germany, and he sees something he never thought he'd see- pure, utter concern. "Allemagne, you cut yourself?"

He gives her a hesitant nod, and she shakes her head as she rolls his sleeves to expose his scars to the air, and he looks at it with a sad look on his face.

"Is this because of me?", France asks, guilt evident in her voice.

"N-no ma'am", Germany replies. "I have been doing this ever since my father... _departed_ and was replaced by that bastard man."

France sighs. "Even then, it's quite harmful to cut. Please stop."

Germany blinks. "I... I don't think a simple plead would stop me from cutting. _Es tut mir leid_."

France shakes her head. "I know. But we'll cope together." She puts the bouquet of flowers between them, and Germany notices how France's perfume overcomes all of the flowers between them.

Their foreheads touch, and Germany can feel his heart thumping, running around with joy as he finally gets to be with the woman of his dreams, the love of his life, the girl he will love to the moon and back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Es ist schön dich wieder zu sehen Niederlande- It is nice to meet you again Netherlands  
> Nee- no   
> Vrienden- friend   
> Mein dame- my lady   
> Es tut mir leid- sorry


	23. you are still the sons, and he the father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imsi and Jeguk try finding out why their father is absent from their lives everyday. The truth horrifies them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for homophobia

It was a quiet and uneventful day in the Korean home. Chosen was humming to herself as she makes herself breakfast, having skipped out earlier due to errands in the market. She hears Daehan Jeguk and Imsi talking, but decides not to bother them.

"It is quite unnatural that father would disappear every now and then", Jeguk muses as he looks at the bright sun shining down on them, making the flowers move to its direction.

"How long has his strange disappearances been going on?", Imsi asks, looking at Chosen eating her food.

Jeguk thinks for a moment, "Ever since I have come here, he has been disappearing every now and then. There are slight differences in his appearance once he comes home though; wrinkled clothes, messy hair, and a red blush on his cheeks."

Imsi snorts, "I bet he visits brothels at times."

Jeguk chuckles, "Definitely. Although I have some suspicions on the 'brothel' subject."

"Why is that?"

Jeguk takes out a slip of parchment from his sleeves, stained, yet some characters readable. Imsi leans in to look at the parchment, and finds out that it is written in Chinese. Imsi raises a brow, trying to muster the characters and translate it. It is from a man named Ming, who happens to be the last dynasty before Qing had come along.

"It looks to be a letter", Jeguk says, "from a Chinese man."

Imsi rolls his eyes. "No shit Sherlock."

"Whenever father receives his letter", Jeguk continues, ignoring Imsi's statement, "he lights up and dresses himself up."

"Perhaps this man is one of his friends who encourages him to visit brothels?"

"Yes but-", Jeguk narrows his eyes, suspicious as he investigates the letter more, "-this man is using very flattering words in Chinese, too flattering for a friend."

"Let me see", Imsi says as he takes the letter from Jeguk, to inspect it full-heartedly. There were some very, _very_ inappropriate innuendos and statements, but this man talks about how he loves their father with all their might. Imsi furrows a brow, as he looks at Jeguk with eyes wide of realization. "I think I already know why father disappears every so often."

"Yes? And what do we do about it?"

"I'll tell you later."

That night, their father, Joseon, comes back with a delighted expression on his face, covering his neck with his clothing. He did not eat with the rest of his family, claiming he has 'already eaten'. Imsi and Jeguk look towards the back of their father as he ascends towards the stairs.

Imsi leans in towards Jeguk, who was beside Chosen, "He has a lover. A male one."

"Please, this man might just be very affectionate, and our father would never dare cheat on our mother." Jeguk spoonfeeds Chosen, and she smiles in return. Imsi goes back towards his seat and resists the urge to gag at the couple in front of him.

"We'll see about that", Imsi whispers to himself, continuing to eat, trying to ignore the couple activng lovey-dovey in front of him.

-

Imsi and Jeguk settle out a plan: if their father receives another letter and disappears off into the floods of ancient men and women, they follow after him. They just want to see if their theories were right, and feel like Joseon has been keeping this secret long enough; it needs to be shed to the public light.

Joseon was humming a Chinese melody when Imsi first encounters him. Imsi was just standing by the front lawn, admiring the beautiful flowers littered along the way and appreciating its beauty, when a mailman had scared the life out of him. He says it is for his father, and Imsi takes it from his hands. He narrows his eyes as he carefully unravels it, hoping that once he gives it to Joseon he wouldn't notice the differences.

Imsi furrows his brow as he reads through the letter. This man, just like from the previous letters, has been using very flattering words and sexual innuendos, much to Imsi's embarrassment and dismay. Despite all this, he can feel disgust churn inside of him as he realizes that this man - Ming, he reminds himself - is seemingly seducing their father with his words, and their foolsome of a father has agreed to be swayed into this... _atrocity_. A crime. Imsi tries not to crumple the paper, but he has the urge to do it, to go to Ming's home and hurt him, and shout at his father for being a sodomite.

The letter ends with another statement of love and care, telling Joseon to meet him at the palace. Imsi carefully puts the letter back to his place, plasters on a straight face despite his disgust and anger, and walks towards Joseon. He can't even unsee his father, the man who had taught him morals and philosophy in his life, a homosexual. A disgusting, grieving homosexual.

"Father, someone has given me this letter. Says it's for you." Imsi tries to look at his father's eyes, but breaks eye contact with him after a few seconds. No matter how much he tries, he cannot look at him in the eye.

"Oh, thank you son", Joseon says as he takes the letter out of Imsi's hand, unfolding it to read its contents. To Imsi's disgust, his father's face starts to redden, his dark eyes shining brightly, rivalling the sun. Imsi's face contorts in disgust, and it deepens when Joseon chuckles and folds the letter, looking at his youngest son with a slight smile.

"Tell the others I am going away for a trip Imsi", Joseon says, holding up a hand to ruffle his hair, but Imsi steps backward, not wanting to be touched. "Ah, it seems you have grown out of my touches."

Imsi nods, playing along. "Honestly, it is quite embarrassing for me to be held like that father." He says with a fake smile.

Joseon laughs light-heartedly, as he goes inside to change. Imsi follows him back to the house, and leans on the table, trying not to listen to Jeguk and Chosen flirting. He elbows Jeguk after the couple laspes into a comfortable silence.

"We follow father", Imsi says, the word ' _father_ ' now foreign on his lips, as if this brand new secret he and Jeguk discovered made them think there was more to Joseon than just being their father. He was a sinful man. "We catch him with this 'Ming' person, and we'll see if he truly has a... male lover." Imsi shudders at those last words, while Jeguk purses his lips.

"Alright, we'll see if our current hypothesis is correct", Jeguk says.

"You mean _my_ hypothesis?"

Jeguk gives him a lopsided smile. "I changed my mind of father having an overly clingy friend."

-

Once their father bid farewell to them, they start to follow him discreetly, letting him walk distant steps so they can keep up with him while maintaining their cover. Once Joseon reaches a beautiful looking palace with Chinese carved across the gates, did they realize that Ming was, say, _royalty_. Perhaps even richer than their family. This man must be quite important in Joseon and others' lives. After all, he did say something about how a person made his life special and exciting, they just didn't think of it _that_ way.

They spot their father looking through the beautiful scenery of the Chinese' much, _much_ better-looking garden, to the brothers' jealousy. It had fountains, a pond with a curved bridge, the waters clear and full of lilies. They silently walk over it, marvelling the scenario, before turning back to their task. Their task was to put an end to their father's crimes, once and for all. They silently follow Joseon into the palace, hide past the dragon throne where many of the old Chinese dynasties still live, until they reach a beautiful place, comparable to a paradise. It was just like the garden they've seen at front, but much more natural, comfortable, and nostalgic. They then spot Joseon walking towards a man - Ming, presumably - and a familiar woman snuggling up to a man. Perhaps that was her husband.

Imsi and Jeguk hide behind the hedges, trimmed just above their height, as they continue watching their father with narrowed eyes. Joseon was smiling, a blush forming on his cheeks, and the twins can't help but feel disgusted. How could their father abandon his virtues by devouring one's own gender? How could he abandon his masculinity?

Ming noticeably smiles as he sees Joseon nearing him, and the two embrace. Much to the twins' disgust and horror, the two share a kiss on the lips.

"You've joined us again, my Chaoxian", Ming says. Jeguk furrows his brows.

_But father had hated that name Qing had always called him_ , he thinks to himself. _But then he looks almost sad, like someone had called him that in a special, meaningful way._

"I'll always join you, even to the afterlife, Myeong", Joseon says softly.

Imsi had remembered seeing his father in tears one night, whispering the name ' _Myeong_ ' over and over again, hugging a small painting in his hands. He suddenly can't help but feel sick, remembering how he thought Joseon was crying over a loved one. He was crying over a loved one, but he didn't expect it to be like that. Not even his queens can console him of his old ' _friend_ '.

"Dad, you have to taste the peaches that Ming has harvested recently in his garden", the girl, who was the only woman in the group exclaims, and her husband chuckles.

"I will", Joseon says, chuckling, sitting on Ming's lap, much to his observing sons' dismay.

Imsi and Jeguk look at each other, confuzzled at what they had just heard come out of the girl's mouth.

_Father_? Jeguk mouths to Imsi, and shrugs, feeling jealousy coming back to him, a conflicting emotional storm wishing to wreck his ship of happiness, like it always does for his whole life. He can feel a cloud of emotions churning inside of him, waiting to burst.

And it did, when he sees Joseon and Ming passionately making out. He angrily steps forward, wanting to shout at his father, but his brother beats him to it, having enough of this tomfoolery.

"Father." Jeguk's tone was full of anger, his face seething with rage. The girl and her husband look up at the newcomer, while Joseon and Ming quickly break apart. Imsi is very quick to follow, crossing his arms while standing beside his brother, both of them giving each other support.

"Jeguk? Imsi?" Joseon's tone was panicked, as he stands up from where he was sitting. "W-what are you doing here?"

"Checking up on you", Jeguk spits, "you've been disappearing from our home for so many years, we didn't think to care where you have gone."

"We let those years slide", Imsi replies, anger evident. "We let those years slide because we thought you were innocent and were attending meetings."

Ming stands up, clearly disliking the attitude his lover's sons were displaying. "And your father _is_ innocent! How _dare_ you talk to your father like that!"

"This is none of your business", Jeguk snipes, giving Ming a cold hard glare, "this is between me, my brother, and our father."

"Tell us, _father_ ", Imsi says, the last word full of poison and Joseon visibly flinches. "Do you feel satisfied of letting a man - a _man_! - touch you that way? Do you feel like you are comitting a crime, an atrocity? Because we certainly think you are!"

"And you dare replace us as your sons with this girl?!", Jeguk says, pointing at Ryukyu, who was ready to defend herself and her father figures, but Malacca holds her down, glaring daggers at the two brothers. "Does becoming a parent increase your chance to be a virtuous man that needs respect?"

Joseon comes up empty with words, mind blank, body shaking.

_Good_ , Imsi thinks, _let him be ashamed of himself_.

Joseon turns to look at Ming, then back at his sons with a remorseful look. He walks to them, tries to touch them, but they both back away. Joseon's brown eyes immediately fill with tears, but he tries to hide it by furrowing his brow.

"Y-you dare disrespect your father like this?", he says sternly. "Who gave you the _right_ to insult your father's decisions?"

"You're no longer our father", Jeguk says, looking at him with an unreadable face, crossing his arms.

Joseon's stern façade breaks, his face contorting to a face of surprise and heartbreak. "Ex-excuse me?"

"You lost the right to be called our father."

Without a word, Jeguk and Imsi walk out of the gardens, feeling everyone's eyes upon him. Tears start to stream down Joseon's face, as he watches the sons he had loved and lost in life turn their backs on him for his choices.

-

"Those were your _sons_?", Malacca says disbelieving as he tries to comfort his father figure, while also calming his wife down, who was absolutely fuming and vowing to flip Joseon's sons on the nearest table. "They are more ill-mannered than Ayutthaya, in my opinion."

"That's because you two often fight for my attention", Ryukyu deadpans, "and now he's just asking for that Portugese bastard to remember him."

Meanwhile, the two lovers were also deep in discussion, with Joseon breaking down into sobs while Ming soothes him, rubbing circles on his back. Ming carresses his lover and tries to calm him down.

"I don't understand", Joseon cries into Ming's clothes, "they loved me with all their heart. They adored and idolized me, even when I proved to be weak. How did _this_ -" he motions to he and Ming- "change everything?"

"Love, I think that your sons have been influenced by _Qing's_ mentality", Ming says with a general distaste on his mouth, as he carresses his lover with gentleness and love. "Perhaps they have become close-minded over the years, thinking that love amongst males is forbidden, sinful and atrocious. Kids these days."

"You know, I was looking forward to meet your sons", Malacca blurts in, "you said they were the most wonderful people."

"They are, Malacca", Joseon sighs, "their beliefs are just... _slanted_."

"'Slanted' as in you and dad?", Ryukyu jokes, and the tense atmosphere in the room turns light as the others let out a few chuckles.

"No one controls the way you love someone", Ming softly says, "they should know that. You should have taught them that back in the days of life."

Joseon doesn't say a word, preferring for his mind to talk to him about the situation at hand, at the prospect he was promptly disowned by his own children. And for what? His unconditional love towards Myeong? He and Myeong had been separated for so long, for so many years, the sea never coming back to crash on the shore, instead, slowly receeding from the golden sand until it dries up, leaving everyone lonely in its wake. He knew that Ming can never come back to him, seeing his corpse in front of him, breaking him and his spirit.

He gently traces a finger around Ming's neck, a thin line made by the rope that had marked the fate of his lover, that had marked the rest of their lives with heartbreak and strife. Ming winces as he looks at Joseon eyeing his wound, reminding him of all his mistakes and sorrows. Ming puts his arms around Joseon, in order to comfort him, and himself.

Their faces were so close together, each feeling each others' breaths on their faces, their eyes telling each other the same thing. Their lips bridge the distance between them, and Joseon tastes the sweet flavor of peach as he explores the inside of his lover, hearing the other sigh and grunt in pleasure, running a hand through Joseon's hair. The man was pleased as he leans more into Ming's warmth, craving for more, more, _more_. Ming tugs on his hair and Joseon lets out a breathy moan, breaking apart from Ming with hunger in his eyes, grinding his arousal on to Ming's knee. Ming smirks at him, putting a finger on his chin, both their eyes levelled once again. Joseon can see the power, lust and dominance Ming's golden eyes, their smirk turning into a cheshire cat's grin.

"How about we...", Ming tugs at Joseon's hanbok, and he does not protest, already knowing deep inside him he is enjoying this. "... blow off some steam?"

Joseon replies with another kiss on Ming's lips, as he lets himself be carried by his man to another room, leaving the room to Ryukyu and Malacca.

"Since we have the room to ourselves-" Malacca starts but is cut off by lips on his, and he kisses back, already knowing what his wife needs.

-

Jeguk feels conflicted. After confronting his father, there was a strangled mess of emotions inside of him, a tangled knot refusing to untangle. It was a mess of problems compiled one by one, making him weak in his footsteps, but he carries on, the once bright, beautiful and shining light in the sky burning him through his skin, like he had done a wrong doing and deserved to be burned alive for it. It singes him, clawing through his clothes, skin, hair, bones, until he is nothing but ashes standing in the desert.

When he sees Chosen, however, planting beautiful flowers in their front lawn, the feelings fade, as it is replaced by feelings of fluttering love, like back in the old days of them frolicking in the fields or kissing in the stables whenever no one was there. His beloved sees him and she waves, smiling delightfully, and just like that the memories of his confrontation fades, as he runs to Chosen and hugs her, spinning her around and loving the way she laughs.

Imsi stays silent, no interjection nor bittersweet remark to their flirtations.

After a few more chuckles, Jeguk puts her down, and she looks at Imsi, standing tensely, eyes straight ahead, looking through the couple.

"Imsi, are you okay?", she asks, sounding concerned. Imsi looks at her but doesn't say anything as he walks through the couple like they're ghosts and walks into the house, closing the door with a loud slam, making Chosen flinch and cling on to Jeguk, old memories surging up. He comforts her, soothing her by singing to her lullabies, until she feels better.

"I'm sorry for my brother's attitude, _nae salang_ ", Jeguk says as he wipes some of Chosen's tears that spilled from her eyes, "we had a confrontation with our father today."

"Is that why you and Imsi vanished with Joseon all of a sudden?", Chosen asks, burying her face into Jeguk's chest. " _Gwaenchanh-a boiji anh-a_."

Jeguk sighs, leading his wife inside, his fingers rubbing her palms to make her feel better. He finds Imsi, seated near the tables, head on his hands. "It is because... our father did something horrible, atrocious, _sinful_."

Chosen gasps, " _Mwo_?"

Before Jeguk can open his mouth, Imsi intervenes, sounding troubled. "We found our father kissing another man. He did not deserve to be called our father anymore."

Chosen's surprised face is then replaced by furrowed brows and a confused look. " _Geuge daya_?"

"Well-"

"You _disowned_ your _father_ for loving another man?" Her tone was angry and disbelieving. She lets go of Jeguk, much to her husband's surprise. Imsi looks up from where he was sitting, raising a brow, his mind still brewing up trouble.

"Chosen-", Jeguk tries to respond, but it seems she was not yet done.

"Joseon raised you two! He taught you everything the world has to offer! He loved you both with all his heart, all his soul. Then you say he is not your father anymore for loving another man? That is irrational!"

Imsi stands up, frowning and crossing his arms, staring at her, but she surprisingly remains unfazed in front of the two brothers.

"You don't know him the way we did." Jeguk looks at his brother, who seems to be feeling the same amount of troublesome amount of feelings, trying to destroy his walls with big tidal waves, angry and rumbling and as dark as the sky. It was trying to destroy them both, a rift creating deep inside them and trying to open the gap more.

"If I knew him the way _you_ did I would respect my father's wishes", Chosen shoots back. Imsi keeps his mouth shut, and it was Jeguk's turn to speak up.

"Chosen, don't you understand? Our father had lied to us, kept us in the dark about this atrocity, even tried to defend himself once he is faced with us! He does not deserve to be called our father! To be part of our family!"

Chosen shakes her head, her anger disappating, replaced with a worried look. "I would be angry my own father would hide such a secret from me, but would I cast him away because he is in love with another man? _No_."

Imsi and Jeguk look at each other, then back at Chosen, who was staring at them.

After a minute of silence, Chosen speaks up.

"Please talk to your father."

"I do not wish to", Imsi replies, and Jeguk himself is surprised by the way Imsi answers her. It was always Jeguk who was stubborn and not complying anyone's orders. Jeguk also wants to deny his wife's suggestion, but something inside him stops. Like there was a yearning in his heart for something more.

So Jeguk makes his choices.

Either he cuts their father out of their afterlives for eternity, or he and his brother accepts him for who he is.

Both sound hard to do.

So he does the latter, taking Imsi's wrist, much to his younger brother's confusion.

"Wait you're certainly not-", Imsi starts, but he sees Jeguk's face, and he sighs. "Y-you feel it too, don't you?"

Jeguk nods, "I feel like we made a mistake."

Imsi takes his brother's hand. "That needs to be right?"

Jeguk nods, embracing him. "That needs to become right."

-

Imsi was imagining all scenarios running around his head as he and Jeguk walk back towards the palace. His thoughts were screaming at him, trying to control his every movement as he and Jeguk come closer to the place they felt touch their hearts so badly to the point both of them feel each other's guilt so distantly. After his confrontation with his father, he can't help but feel his inside tear apart, as if it wasn't meant for him to disrespect his father like that.

He remembered his father tucking him in bed at night after their mother died, singing the same bedtime lullaby their mother once did, and help him be lulled to sleep. He remembered his father letting him read anything in their vast library, and listening to the wonderful stories Imsi had read, acting it out and becoming in sync with his imagination. He remembered his father lecturing and berating him for pulling on his brother's hair too much. And he remembered the corpse of his father, lying in his room, crimson staining the floors, looking as sad as he was in his life.

"Are you alright?", Jeguk asks him.

"Not at all", Imsi replies while shaking his head, running a hand through his hair. "I just have these stupid thoughts of guilt. I am rather conflicted, as of now. Firstly, seeing our father kiss another man is sinful, second, he is being unfaithful to our mother, and third, he's been lying to us, telling us that that man was his friend every time he mourns him. He was not, he was so much more than that."

"I too am not", Jeguk replies sincerely, as they near the palace. "But it is the first time Chosen had spoken her opinions of the matter at hand. She is never this loud before, so I believe we have done something wrong."

Imsi lightly smirks. "Sounds like you're whipped."

Jeguk shakes his head, "I never get those slang words you are speaking of."

Both of them enter the gates of the front palace with small serene smiles, their silence comfortable. They look at the big, wooden door, made of mahogany and rich textures of wood. It was intimidating, especially the dragon head holding the knob, daring them to hold it and summon forth the great dynasties from beyond. Imsi has the audacity to do reckless things more than his brother, though. So he is the one who holds the brass handle, knocking it against the door. He and Jeguk wait for someone to open the door, or tell them they have permission for opening it.

The door opens, a small creak echoing into the room beyond, and Jeguk and Imsi take a step back, to find an unfamiliar man on the door. He looks at them with a raised brow, intimidating and sharp eyes staring back at them.

"May I help you?", he asks curtly, and Imsi tries hard not to scowl, as he lets Jeguk do the talking.

"We are looking for, erm, _Chaoxian_?", Jeguk says, stumbling on his words. He looks up at the fallen dynasty in front of him. "Was that the right name for 'Joseon'?"

"Ah, you're the two who dare trespass in our palace with no invitation", the man says. "I do not think my son will let you come in again."

"Why don't you actually install gates to avoid trespassers", Imsi says under his breath, before looking up at the man - apparently Ming's father - and replying with, "we're here to talk to our father."

The man pretends to consider their request, but shakes his head no. "I am sorry but my son's lover does not need visitors right now."

Imsi can feel frustration seeping into his veins, his hands clenching to fists. He looks at Jeguk, who seems to be glaring at the man.

"Look, _Yuan_ \- or whatever your name is - we just want to talk to our father, to apologize to him", Jeguk calmly says, but there is a hint of indignance in his voice.

The man's eyes widen as his serious face morphs into one of irritation. " _Yuan_? You two think I'm _Yuan_? The person who murdered me and most of my family? The person who made my dear son's life a hellbent adventure? Perhaps I have not introduced myself properly-" he switches to a calmer voice- "my name is Song, last dynasty, along with Jurchen, before that Mongol usurper came along. I think you all know who my son is; Ming."

"What is going on here, father?", a familiar voice asks as Song's son joins him on the doorway, looking down at the two brothers. He looks at them emotionlessly and sighs. "Have you come to torment your father once again?"

Imsi shakes his head, "No sir, we come here to talk to him personally."

Ming tilts his head. "Are you sure you're not going to call him names and explode on him like last time?"

Jeguk nods. "We promise."

Ming nods, widening the doorway. "Well then, it seems you are invited to enter the palace."

Jeguk and Imsi step inside, admiring every single detail on the walls, floors, and ceiling, never really noticing or minding them before due to how they want to explode on their father. The walls were hypnotizing them, commanding the brothers to come closer and embrace its beautiful patterns. The ceiling was giving them all the light they need, laughing at them as they stare up. Ming beckons them to follow, and they do, passing the great wide and lengthy hallway, to the throne room, its size incomparable to anything they've seen in the real life. The thrones were not empty anymore; seated were the great Chinese dynasties, from the mythical Xia and the last dynasty Qing, who was left out, along with a man who looked a lot like him. Yuan, Imsi guesses. They were all with their families, singing, laughing, eating happily like they never had in their first lives. Everyone's eyes turn to look at the two brothers and Ming escorting them.

"Wait, aren't they not the two who insulted their father?", asks the one before Song, who has now occupied his seat.

"For loving another man?", the person seated on the first throne snorts as he fills himself a glass of wine.

"They disrespected their father because of his preferences?", Yuan speaks up but everyone - except Qing - gives him a warning glare, and he seals his lips shut.

("Your father outlawed homosexuality during his reign." One says.)

"Back in our days, we didn't have a care in the world if we love men or women", says the only woman seated on the throne, Great Jin. "We only have one objective in life and it is to marry."

"We already know why these two boys are close-minded of preferences", Ming stares directly at Qing, who holds it for a few seconds before looking away to pretend being enchanted by the walls. Ming looks back at Jeguk and Imsi with a smile, looking old yet... parental. "Come, your dear father is this way."

Jeguk and Imsi follow Ming out of the noisy throne room, an awkward silence consuming them. Imsi looks at Ming, looking far ahead at the large empty hallways full of vases or trinkets or tapestries, each of them having a slight history in them. Imsi then glances at a tapestry of Ming, stepping on a body which seems to be Yuan. Ming had over thrown Yuan, Imsi guesses. Imsi's curiosity starts to spill over the walls he had built around to control himself, and since the hallways were quite large and silent, he decides to ask the first question running around his mind.

"Sir Ming, how did you and my father meet?", Imsi asks.

Ming turns his head to look at him, a slight surprise tinted on his dark eyes and smiles kindly, his cheeks showing the slightest red. "Well, I met your father back when I was a young child; I have been living in the streets ever since Yuan has dethroned my father. I was travelling from region to region to ask citizens to join my cause against the Yuan, but either they were too scared of the immense power the foreigner had or they do not believe a strange, thin child as the true heir of the late Song. So I travelled with only the little food I have to the Korean peninsula, and I found a notable candidate to help me rebel against the foreigners."

A small sigh escapes Ming's lips, incredibly love struck. Imsi wonders if the way a man loves the same gender as he has the same affection as loving another woman. He wonders if all love was the same, if they should be held in a general view. They walk into the beautiful gardens, and the two brothers admire their surroundings, a paradise of the lost, a combination of all beautiful and ugly things. The pond was full of clear water, lily pads on it as the fountains let out bright, sparkly, water.

"Your father was royalty, crown prince of the kingdom his father, Goguryeo, had managed", Ming continues as they pass the butterfly-filled flower bushes, with Jeguk caressing a beautifully patterned butterfly, reminding him of Chosen. "He usually walks to commoner streets in the morning, unguarded."

"Father never even set foot in commoner villages without dozens of guards at his side", Jeguk whispers into Imsi's ear, and Imsi nods.

"I met him once his figure sweeps close to my hiding place", Ming says. "I know that this boy was my ticket to Yuan's palace, and so I surprised him by jumping on his way. Let's just say that Chaoxian had stumbled backwards and commanded me to never set foot near the marketplace. I shot back by saying I was Song's son and therefore heir to the dragon throne, but he replied that I am a madman. With that, he runs back to his palace, perhaps to whine of his misfortune during the day."

"But you and father met again and again, and spent more time", Jeguk assumes as he lets the butterfly fly back to the flowers, as they near the tall peach trees.

"Indeed, my boy", Ming nods as he stands on his tiptoes and reaches to the lowest tree branch, taking three bountiful and healthy peaches and giving two of it to Jeguk and Imsi, who bow to him and silently thank Ming. "He slowly believed I am the rightful heir to the throne, and so he lets me in the palace one day and asks his servants to feed me and give me a warm bath. His parents were quite suspicious of me, thinking I am a con who wants the family fortune, but Chaoxian assures them there is no need to worry. He too, despises Yuan and wishes to expel him. He hires dozens of master fighters, but one of them I had the pleasure to replace as my father in a worth while: Red Turban. He had two sons, Xia and Zhou who are incredibly jealous of my swordsmanship as I train more and more. As I grew healthier and smarter, I started to want something else more than familial fondness and friendly hugs. I desired more, craved more, wanted more than what I have.

"Chaoxian has started eyeing me as well. It seemed that he had been observing my physique and health, and his friendly eyes and smiles turn to one of want and desire as he surveys my body every time we train. It made him distracted from his work. It made _me_ distracted from my goal. One night, Chaoxian had the absolute courage to monitor me and my swordsmanship; the conversation escalated from a friendly one to dozens of flirtatious comments and innuendos to the point we both gave in to our desire." Ming looks at both Jeguk and Imsi, clearly listening with the eyes of intrigued children.

Ming and the brothers reach the end of the garden, into another huge hallway, but this time they had rooms with plaques on their doors. Imsi muses that they must all be large to accomodate many peoples; he passes a sign that reads ' _Manchukuo, Fengtian, and Yihetuan_ ', and he guesses that those three brothers share the same room.

"When I died, I left my dear Chaoxian all alone, mourning my death", Ming says. "I felt guilty, too guilty, but I know he will move on from my death and deem me a past love, and have children with his brand new queen." He stares at Jeguk and Imsi with a face of genuine sadness.

"He didn't, though", Jeguk says, "ever since he were alive he would absently stare into nothingness, weep at a single mention of you, hold a day in your honor, and hoard his room with artifacts back when he was young and happy."

"But did your father love you with all his heart?", Ming asks as they stop near a door with the pinyin reading, ' _Chaoxian_ '.

"Yes", Imsi replies, realization striking deep within him as his heart bleeds to see his father and hug him once again. "His love for us was beyond his queens."

Ming smiles. "Then you have replaced me as the love of his life after my death."

Jeguk and Imsi stare at each other, realization striking in as their memories with their father surfaced in their mind, the eyes their father had displayed towards Ming had the same level of affection as he looks back at his twin sons, enjoying the happy lives they had once lead.

"I will ask my love if he wishes to talk to you both at this time", Ming says as he knocks on the door and slips in, looking back at them with his dark eyes glinted with delight. Ming closes the door, face to face with his large bed, with a body lying on it, sleeping soundly. He shakes his head as he fondly smiles, approaching Chaoxian and gently shaking him awake. The man in question stirs from his sleep, moving his blankets and turning to face him, tired eyes and an annoyed look.

"What is it Ming?", Joseon asks rudely, "we had just pleasured ourselves a while ago and I wish to sleep."

"But that means you cannot talk to your sons." Ming plays innocent. Joseon's eyes stop being tired at once as a look of surprise come across his face.

"M-my sons? They are here?" Joseon immediately shoots up, ignoring the pain on his back as he tries to look for his clothes. "You only notified me of my son's arrival now?"

Ming shrugs, "They came shortly after I made sure you were sound asleep."

Joseon groans as he finds his clothes and dresses himself up, making sure his hair looks kept and his appearance presentable. "I'm still sore and stressed."

Ming chuckles. "Don't fret, my love. You'll rest sooner or later." Joseon makes a motion for him to open the door and let his sons in, and so Ming obeys, as in comes Joseon and Imsi, slowly and carefully. "I'll leave you all to talk." With that, Ming closes the door with him on the other side.

Joseon looks at his sons, eyes darting from a sheepish Jeguk to an awkward Imsi. The three of them were all waiting for the other party to speak up, to tell what's on their minds. Joseon lightly sighs as he nears his sons; both make a slight hesitation if they should stay in their place but neither took a step backwards as Joseon's arms wrap around then in an embrace. Imsi and Jeguk hug back, missing their father even if it had just been an hour or two. Joseon leans back, looking at his sons with a smile.

"I'm sorry-"

"No, we both are sorry", Jeguk interrupts their father. "We're sorry for treating you as if you are second class, as a sinful monster, and disrespecting you."

"We're sorry that we have never been considerate of your feelings", Imsi says, tears filling his eyes. "I never thought you'd-"

"And I apologize for neglecting my duties as a father", Joseon says, "I love you more than what the world has offered me."

"We love you as well, father", Jeguk replies with a sad smile. "We almost gave you up for your preferences."

"You are both forgiven." Joseon kisses them lightly on the top of their foreheads, and they both feel wamth surge inside them, a piece in their hearts finally attaching itself together again.

-

"It seems that we haven't met properly yet", Jeguk says, bowing to the woman his father had deemed as a daughter of his. "I am Daehan Jeguk, former heir to my father Joseon's throne."

The woman rolls her eyes, curtsying. "I've known you since both you and your brother were babes, yet you only regard me as an ally and not a friend. No matter; I am Ryukyu."

Malacca eyes Jeguk and Ryukyu talking, furrowing his brows. He feels someone touch his arm, and he turns his head to find Jeguk's twin brother.

"You do know that Jeguk is married, right?", Imsi points out like the clever little weasel he is.

"Yes", Malacca replies with a frown. "But I still don't like how close he is to my wife."

"Sultanate, I don't know about you but my brother would never cheat on his wife that has suffered too much." Imsi's last statement was vague as he asks for another glass of wine from a servant.

"Why? What happened to his wife?"

"Teikoku."

Malacca blinks and widens his eyes in realization. "Oh."

Imsi takes a sip of his wine as he bumps into another man, who did not take kindly to this assault. The man turns and faces him, face stone-cold and eyes glaring towards Imsi, who was muttering out apologies.

"You _should_ be sorry", the man tells him through a low, cold voice.

"Ayutthaya!", a jovial and elderly voice sounds through the croud, and it breaks the intimidating air Ayutthaya had created, making Imsi exhale a breath of relief and thank Myeong. Myeong approaches them, silk robes and all, as he smiles pleasantly towards Imsi and frowns at Ayutthaya. "Now now, what have I told you about scaring new family members?"

Imsi blinks, clearly surprised at what Myeong had said. _Family_. He and Jeguk are now part of Myeong's - clearly - large family? He looks around to find most of Myeong's tributaries chatting amongst themselves or tasting the sweet treats the servants had cooked for them, and he realizes he can finally have more than one brother; he can have all.

"Wait, me and Jeguk are part of your family now?", Imsi asks, mouth agape.

Ayutthaya scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Of course, you idiot. Haven't you heard that your father has married Ming?"

Imsi blinks. "Married?"

Myeong looks sheepish. "Oh, we're really sorry we didn't-"

"No, it's fine", Imsi cuts in and gives Myeong a hug. "I think I feel found."

Ming smiles as he embraces the young boy back, savoring his warmth. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ayutthaya give the two a slight smile before it turns to a frown once he notices Jeguk and the others approaching them. The man groans as Ming and Imsi part.

Joseon pats Ayutthaya on the head as he embraces Ming and gives him a shy kiss on the cheek, making the room errupt in a cheer, save for Jeguk who modestly claps and Imsi who smiles at them. Ayutthaya was cheering along as well, crossing his arms.

"Hey Jeguk", Imsi whispers to his older brother, who was busily pouring himself a drink.

"Yes?"

"Do you feel the slightest bit weirded out when father kissed Myeong?"

A pause from Jeguk, hesitation. "A little bit, yes." He turns and he and Imsi watch Ming and Joseon kiss and hug each other tightly, like they were meant to be, like they were soulmates.

"But if father is happy, I am happy too." 


	24. the vulnerability of immortality

Here's a filler fic that'd probably keep you guys waiting until i finally post that Asian Christmas party fic and German Empire getting pummeled

**Österreich did not exist... but then he started existing.**

* * *

 

Austria can remember the feeling of not existing at first, a cosmic entity watching a cataclysmic event in the far future. It was being displayed by the galaxies beyond him, his body as light as a star that tries not to shine as bright as the milky way that he was born in. He doesn't even have a name at first, he doesn't exist, after all. He can watch the planes all he wants without the feeling of crushing mortality pressing him into the solid grounds. He never even knows what ground feels like. He is nothing but a watcher, a silent one who has no personality nor voice in the whole galaxy. He sits, and he watches, looking at the visions with no feelings, numb yet wanting to die. He looks at the visions he is being shown, and he feels something; longing. Longing for the inevitable, he unconsciously touches the visions, full of nameless people that were either cemented into history or erased from it.

He regrets it.

He doesn't regret it.

Then he feels light absorb him, consume him and his non-existent mouth urges to scream, and so he does; he lets out a sound he has never heard from his silent self before, feeling his numbness turning into pain as he feels his cosmic body enter something else. The feeling of flesh attaches to his body like glue paste, as he feels himself seeing everything with bright new colors, entertaining yet painful to watch, only used to the astronomical purples and white blinkering dots resembling the stars, knowing if he approaches them they will becoming, big, bright, bold stars.

And his transformation stops, a flip from a switch as he is brought to a woman. He can move, he can see the world he had only seen from the visions that someone from beyond had sent him, to cope with him not existing. He was in a bundle, tightly wrapped like he would fall off, and die as he hits the floors.

Then, his memories start to drain, from the beginning of time when the big bang was - mistakenly - made, hot gases fughting, the great mother Earth forming in the volcanic hell that used to be the planet, the rains, the Ancient Sumerians and their inventing of wheels, the Macedonian Empire, the Toltecs, Mayans, the unexpected Mongol Empire conquering Eurasia through the means of horseback, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and its blazing glory, the Sick Man of Europe, Red China, and the End of the World, Earth becoming sickly and turning everything into ashes.

All of what he had seen- visions, the past, the vague present, the incoming future bombarding in time, all slips from his vision, like it was nothing and a switch off from his mind.

Before his seemingly uneventful birth, he didn't exist, watching everything as a nebulous cosmic entity.

Now he exists and he must live through it all, vision-less.

I am Austria, a voice inside him says, and I exist.

-

The children aren't like him

He knows just by how much they fear him

They don't invite him to play with him

Not like he cared

He prefers to read the bible

They pray using their rosaries to the God above

Something inside Austria tells him he's beyond God

-

His mother meets her end with a sickness

Something he cannot remember

He watches his mother go without a hint of sadness

Now he is all alone

-

Life in the streets is hard enough

Somehow he is still healthy despite dirty living conditions

He steals

He begs

He needs

-

Austria meets His Majesty

The second next best thing compared to the Roman Empire

He sits on his throne

Two black pairs of wings in all his glory

On a throne of gold

His stern face looking straight at Austria

He is the Holy Roman Empire

-

Life as a peasant-turned-prince isn't easy

His adoptive brothers loathe him

The castle servants gossip of him being a spawn of Satan

But Holy Roman Empire lets him stay no matter what

He loves him

He hates Prussia

-

Holy Roman Empire encourages him to follow his heart

He becomes a pastor

Shortlived

So he takes an interest in composing and playing musical intruments

Forever

-

Österreich gives his betrothed a bouquet of flowers

He says he matches her eyes

He's filled with so much love

Nothing lasts forever

-

He hears the arranged marriage

He drops his copy of the bible

He runs to the palace where his love resides

She's not there

-

Her father tortures him

By giving him an invite to Korona and Lieutvos' wedding

He stands there on the isle, cross-armed and scowling

He bites his lip, trying not to cry as his true love and a barbarian kiss

He's not going to cry

-

He focuses on his studies more

Focuses on politics more

But he cannot seem to shake off Korona's smiling face

He looks towards his abandoned poems and compositions for Korona

He hides them in his chest with a mighty shut

Even then he knows all words and tunes by heart

-

Prussia is grinding at his gears

So is his father

He takes an interest in a brand new style of art from the French lands

It helps his broken heart

It helps him heal

Unlike his music

-

He hears rumors

Rumors of Korona and Lieutvos' marriage being unhappy

Korona is afraid of that dirty pagan

Looks like he still has a chance to win her heart after all

He approaches her one day when Lieutvos was talking to the Holy Roman Empire

"Let's run away together" he says with hope in his eyes

Korona sheepishly looks away, patting her belly

"I am bearing a child" she says her voice barely a whisper

His smile fades as hope inside of him shatters

He feels the weight of loneliness crush him to dirt

He tells his servants nor family to never enter his room

He is mourning

For what

For the death of his love

-

He and Prussia fight more each day

That kingdom from afar is getting too close to the outer territories of his duchy

He plays music to let off some steam

He did not even mention her name once

Holy Roman Empire is turning to a figurehead

Österreich is God

God is Österreich

He is holy in every way

-

He attends Korona's baby's baptism

He is named Poland after his grandfather

He cannot look Korona in the eye

He hates Lieutvos every second he is here

The child has his mother and father's striking features

He can feel his world turning blurry for a second

-

He spends his time away from his land

To fight wars

A war he needs to fight for his father

Who's too gluttonous to leave the throne

He can see his pair of dark wings having the slightest tinge of white

The sign of becoming old

He wonders why an immortal being is becoming old each passing day

Will he become old

-

How dare that damned man insult the church

How dare he post such insults in a door

How dare he question his father's rule

Prussia is objecting

He is objecting too

But he can't help but somewhat agree with the man who defames the church

Lutheranism and Reformation spreads through the entire continent like a ravaging wildfire

Even the Discovery isn't as intense as this

-

War was coming to his doorstep

Holy Roman Empire finally gets up from his throne

Some of his feathers falls as he stands in all his glory

The old empire is an examplary fighter

He and Prussia see eye to eye in the dissonance

-

France wishes for Burgundy

He defends his territory

He beats and bests the kingdom at every turn

He has become powerful in his own right

He marches to Rome

To become the rightful king of the Romans

He is the true Rome

Not Russia

Not even the Holy Roman Empire

-

That Kingdom of Hungary is threatening his power

Hungary wishes for peace

He is suspicious

He wakes the first day to find him invading his land

How dare he

That is not his

-

He gains more land and power

Hungary is a distant yet close problem now

He allies and forms bonds

He plans to take Britanny

France takes it first

-

Schweiz is a stubborn woman

Fighting for her independence with a fury

At first Österreich and his family laugh at her

But she is serious

And she got what she wants in the end

He admires her feistiness

-

He, Preußen and Russia wish for more land

They target the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth

Something inside him tells him the once love of his life will never forgive him for this

Once love of his life

Now turned to dust

They make plans

-

He has second thoughts

Korona's eyes give him a look of betrayal

He hesitates

Then he remembered that she isn't his anymore

She's in love with someone else now

Not him

He has no more second thoughts after this

-

He feels pleasure rise into him as he slits Lieutvos' throat

He hears Korona's cries, calling him a traitor

He laughs, and so do the others

Yet after he murdered the former love of his life

He starts to weep

Why is he weeping

He can't even read anything without squinting

-

The Holy Roman Empire drops dead

His last feathers are nothing but pure white

No more of his black feather

He cannot feel sadness despite the fact he has shown him kindness

No more of the empire

A new era begins

-

Rhineland gives him a baby boy bundled up in blankets

Österreich says he has no use of his child

But Rhineland pleads with him to care for the boy

He does as a friend

He's unaware of the pain and suffering he will go through

Over the years

-

He clutches Confederation's hand

Still warm

His tears are flooding his eyes as their warm drops pitter patter on his skin

He has a smile on his face, a smile to encourage Confederation he can still live

"I will die" Confederation says hushed

"No you will not" Österreich manages to say "You will live"

Confederation smiles at his father warmly "I forgive you"

His hand goes limp, eyes closed, body temperature becoming cold

Österreich's forced smile drops like Confederation's lifeline

He holds his body

The boy whom had warmed his heart as a son

He cries in choked sobs

Then he screams

He screams and shouts and cries

Why didn't the doctors save this innocent boy

Why did he have to leave him alone

He goes blind

Yet he still hears him singing

-

Austria and Hungary waltz in the moonlight, away from observing eyes

"This is wrong" Österreich says as his body dips lower

"But you do not care" Hungary replies

And then they kiss

He can feel another love sparkle through the night

There is nothing wrong with this

This is heaven

This is hell

-

Being fused to your love can take some time to adjust

Yet they love each other

But they're not close to each other

They're not even beside each other

He will get used to it

-

Of course Hungary stopped loving him

What did he expect

He can feel his heart setting to stone once again

Hungary leaves him after the fall of their empire

He breaks mirrors that show his sad and pathetic self

Glass ends up over his face

He can't try to make out what's right and wrong anymore

He's alone again

All he can see are blurry shapes

-

He plays the violin

He sings old melodies lost in time never sharing them

He sees the world burn like a distant memory

Österreich tries to cope with his detoriating power

By singing through it all

Ghosts appear before him, mocking at him for the way he has turned out

He chokes

-

Österreich stands with Reich

Once a young, naïve and nice boy has corrupted and snapped

He wanted to blame his father

But he can't help but blame he himself

He helps with his plans and tactics

Helps him in the battlefield

Helps him with everything

He needs to become powerful again

At what cost?

-

The war is over

Deutschland is divided

He can see their faces but never makes their details out

The world has gone too blurry for him

He looks at his hands

Now only good for playing instruments

He clenches his fists and punches a mirror

It breaks

His hands hurt

He forgot how to live

-

Schweiz came to him in such a manner

He has to stop for a breath

Österreich can feel himself getting pulled by Schweiz

But he trusts his instincts

Österreich likes the man before him

Their kiss lights up his life

-

He has to wear glasses now

What a humiliating defeat

It seems he cannot shoot a gun properly anymore

He throws away all firearms and weapons, save for those he has treasured so greatly

He doesn't feel the slightest bit of regret

He is finally free

He has finally matured and moved on

-

He can hear him singing

Österreich goes from door to door, searching for the culprit of the voice

It is echoing in his house, a melody he has heard of many times

He opens a door, and another, and another

But he isn't there

Why will he be

He is gone and dead

Yet his ghost still lingers

Laughing at him

Österreich screams, it echoes through the house, wanting the voice to stop singing and give him peace

Silence

Then he starts singing once again until Österreich has broken down to tears

-

He swears he can hear them

The voices whispering towards him as he makes his way through the halls

They grow louder

And louder

And louder

They scream at Österreich, vowing to never forget what he has done to them

He does not scream nor react feeling numb

He doesn't remember what it feels like to live

-

Deutschland pours him a drink, delighted smile and all

Österreich clinks his glass with him as well

Everyone's having so much fun

He smiles as he takes a sip of his beer

He doesn't remember having this much fun with people

Everyone is so lively

He doesn't remember being that lively

Everyone is living and breathing unlike those gross voices he keeps hearing

Dr. Österreich finally learns how to live.


	25. don't threaten me with a good time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a long overdue christmas party fic

Indonesia, Malaysia and the Philippines would always organize the Christmas party every year, Christmas decorations at hand. It'd always be routine for this trio to organize the Christmas party, invite everyone important enough to be invited, and decorate the entire venue with Christmas decorations and clean it up after the party is over. Today Malaysia had voted for the party venue to be in the Spratly Islands, and Philip counters it by saying it was ill-willed to put the party on a disputed territory.

(Philip has been waiting for the day of the Christmas party ever since September- like every year, his Christmas season starts at the ninth month due to its suffix. Malaysia and Indonesia had been woken up by his incessant need to play booming Christmas songs at twelve in the morning.)

"I still think this is stupid", Philip says as he puts a mistletoe on the doorway, to congratulate couples or undeserving people of a fate. "It's not a bright idea to invite people to some disputed island in the West Philippine-"

" _South China_  Sea", Malaysia pretentiously corrects, earning her a glare from the man. She flicks her fingers as she looks at the list of invites.

(Malaysia was the only one who had decided who's worthy enough for an invite to their Christmas party, and no one should object of whom she decided to invite.)

"Who did you invite to this, again?", Indonesia asks as he carefully sets the sofas to the furthest corner of the room to accommodate space.

"The countries, of course, all of them - except for North Korea - some important cities and a number of disputed territories-" she narrows her eyes as she reads the list, but just then Philip sputters.

"You included the disputed territories?!", Philip exclaims, looking at Malaysia like she was a madman.

Malaysia shrugs. "Well yeah, at least they'd have more involvement than going to meetings of their claimants'."

"This is the stupidest idea you have in a while", Indonesia states. "But oh well, you invited everyone needed."

"And everyone useless", Philip mutters under his breath.

Indonesia takes out another table from a room, and he laughs. "Is this where people's taxes go?"

Philip smirks cryptically. "Where else?  _Hospitals_?"

-

Singapore and Brunei were the first to arrive, of course. They live near the Spratly Isles and can get there in due time. Malaysia ushers them in, and they enter while looking at the Christmas decorations with an unimpressed look.

("This is  _Philippines_  we're talking about", Brunei whispers to Singapore. "Why isn't the whole place decorated in mistletoe yet?")

"Brunei, Singapore!", Philippines greets them and embraces them both. "The food-to share goes to those tables Indonesia is still arranging to this night-" the man glares at him as he pushes the tables into one consecutive line- "-and you put your gifts underneath the Christmas tree of course."

"And since you both came early", Indonesia pants. "Help me move the fucking tables."

Singapore scoffs. "Told you we should've arrive even later." He and Brunei help Indonesia with the tables, leaving Philip and Mal alone together.

Mal links arms with Philip, much to his confusion as he looks at her. She smiles and says, "Well then, you and me should cook more food for the others."

"They're bringing their own", Philip deadpans, "I don't think they'd like pig."

"But you  _ordered_  the roasted pig right?" Malaysia seductively traces her fingers over his back and lifts his chin up with one. The man looks away, face red and looking quite bashful. "You always feel like an outcast when you hang out with us." She stands on her tiptoes as she lets her breath touch his ear. "I can make you feel like you're not."

"Hey assholes", they turn to look at Indonesia glaring at them, with Brunei and Singapore giggling like school girls behind him, "why don't you actually cook instead of flirting 'round the place?"

Malaysia scoffs and takes Philip's hand as she drags him towards the kitchen, the man putting up no fight.

"Phil will eat Mal out in the kitchen, would he?", Singapore says between giggles.

-

Daehan Minguk was, to put it simply, fatigued over another argument with Japan over the war crimes and the ongoing trade war between them. He just can't stand Ilbon and their ignorance; sooner or later they will have to apologize. He feels himself drowning in a heated blaze of anger and anguish as he throws his coat onto the sofa, not bothering to pick up any stray material from his floors. He finds a lone envelope on his night stand, and he yanks it and tears the envelope open (he's never one for gentleness) and pulls the paper from its source. Of course, it's an invite from the annual and yearly Christmas party from Malleisia, Ghonghwagug and Jedo. He can feel his day get better just from the invite alone, but then he deflates when he sees who his Secret Santa was.

 _Mongolia_.

He grimaces. He'd rather have  _Ilbon_  as his exchange gift than he. At least he can gift the asshole a hive of bees and be done with it, but it has to be this guy.

Minguk gulps, remembering that night from before, the night where their lips mistakenly touched, where their bodies collided and warmth and friction showered them in such love and affection. He remembered their uneven breathing, the way Mongolia's drunk eyes shown the slightest bit of love, and Minguk can feel himself shiver; he committed a crime. A disgusting crime that shouldn't even be punished by death itself.

And worst of all, he liked it.

No.

 _Loved_  the feeling.

That may be his biggest regret of all, and now he feels like shit all over.

-

Him and Kazakhstan walk alone towards the venue, food-to-share and exchange gift on their hands, chattering comfortably. Or, Kazakhstan was the one carrying the conversation and Mongolia only replies in nods or hums, his mind in another place. His mind is back to thinking about the one man that made his heart beat so rapidly, unlike any other woman he met in his life. His brain is filled with the man's image and wit and words, his ears still echoing his voice and beat, and his body feeling the heat and warmth they had shared that faithful night.

It was tearing him apart.

So he tries to listen to what Kazakh was saying, waving his arms around with a delighted expression on his face.

"The other Central Asians told me to go on my own 'cause they were busy cleaning the place", Kazakhstan says dejectedly as he and Mongolia walk to the venue, which was pretty bright due to how many Christmas lights were fluttering around the areas. Kazakhstan opens his mouth to explain a few more things but Mongolia tunes out, trying to find yet another way to try and avoid Ömnöd Solongos the entire night he was there. Kazakhstan continues on rambling about more topics Mongolia has no interest in as they take a step onto the front porch.

Kazakhstan gives the door three knocks before it opens, revealing a man shorter than them with messy black hair, dark skin, an eye patch that resembles the sun and stars, and blue eyes. Yes, the party organizer himself. He looks at them both with a bright smile.

"More guests!", he says, ushering them inside. Mongolia and Kazakhstan ogle at the dozens of Christmas decor strung up across the place like Santa's home but not in the South Pole. "You can place the food you brought with ya on those tables right over there and the exchange gifts underneath the Christmas tree."

" _Bayarlaa_ ", Mongolia says as he and Kazakhstan follow the man's instructions. He just then realized he had forgotten the man's name and wanted to ask him, but he tells himself the guy could've forgotten his name too as he watches him greet Japan.

-

Koku walks towards the party venue alone, loving the way the trees sway calmly with the breeze. It was a little warmer in the tropic regions, but still a little cold at night so they took a coat with them. They smile at the surroundings' serene energy, not like the noisy and mentally deteriorating office buildings they've become accustomed to for forever. They brought some of their prized foods to share with the others- sushi, pufferfish to name a few. They were actually relieved that they didn't pick either Chūgoku nor Kankoku as their Secret Santa - they would've flip - but instead they got Firipin, thank the stars.

They finally set their sights on the party venue, quite bright against the dark skies above them, wven blinding the stars. They walks faster as they take two steps on the porch and knock on the door. Someone opens it and that someone smiles at them.

"Japan!", a familiar set of warm arms wrap around them, and they smile a little. Their red eyes meet Philip's remaining blue eye, his stars twinkling like the stars planted on the night sky.

"Konbawa Firipin", Japan greets him with a bow, clutching their food-to-share and exchange gift. They fully enter the manor, looking at the Christmas-themed surroundings (of course, this is Philip they're talking about) Indonesia, Marēshia and Shingaporu were buried in a deep discussion of food and politics, while Brunei and Mongoru places their gifts underneath the Christmas tree. Another boy approaches Firipin - Kazafusutan - and asks him where the bathroom is and he gives him the directions.

They see no Chūgoku or Kankoku yet.

They'll enjoy moments of not being intrusive.

-

Israel hitches a ride with the Arabs no matter how many times they insult him. It was better than asking America for a ride anyway. He crosses his arms as he tries to tune out Saudi Arabia and Bahrain's disgusting flirting.

("I'd eat you and your meals because they're all delicious Albahrayn", Saudi Arabia says, a hand on the wheel and a hand on Bahrain's thighs as she giggles uncontrollably.

Israel resists the urge to gag.)

Qatar had also insisted on bringing his - illegally bought - pet cheetah to the Christmas party and like a spoiled child his wish is granted. Israel can hear the large cat ripping their presents and eating their food-to-share. The Arabs didn't care; their servants would fix everything for them. Speaking of the servants, they were driving in a cheap van that was supposed to be tailing behind them but Saudi Arabia speeds the car up like the pretentious shit he is.

He sighs. He should've rode with their servants.

-

Vietnam carefully wraps her present in red paper, its smooth texture soft to her skin. Gift-wrapping is apparently appeasing her and making her feel better, especially after she drunk enough beer to make this day a hungover day. Yet she still has a Christmas party to attend to, and she'd love for everyone to try her foods, and she couldn't risk her exchange gift being lonely for the season.

After finishing wrapping her gift up she starts to prepare to put all her foods in a single box after sorting them out. She puts the box of food and present behind their car with a sigh, as if she has done a lot of her chores.

Vietnam walks over to her room and opens her wardrobe; her friends had encouraged her to wear something other than formal clothes or military ones this party. She looks at her trusty AK, gleaming in the artificial light, never rusty nor dusty. Of course she'll take it to the party; perhaps that man will be there. She looks through her clothes, most of them military, formal... she looks at the last.

It was a dress.

A gift from the Soviet Union before he died.

Vietnam takes it.

-

"Vietnam", she sighs as she hears that familiar voice. Philippines approaches her with that flirtatious smirk of his, posture straight and hands in his pockets, a tip of his gold wedding ring just exposed.

She points the head of her AK towards Philippines, stopping his advances as she glares at him with a hard look. Philippines, on the other hand, remains unfazed. Rather, he has that signature flirtatious smirk of his, his blue eye trailing over Vietnam's AK then hovering over her body much to her annoyance. Pursing her lips she knocks the head of her AK onto Philip's head, making him stumble backwards.

"Learned your lesson?", Vietnam asks with a proud smirk on her face, an arm on her waist.

Philip's stance was precarious, like a tree trying not to be knocked down by a ravaging force. He recovers quite quickly, standing still in that confident posture of his.

"Only thing I learned is that you need a real gun,  _mahal_."

Vietnam's eye twitches, walking away from that stubborn man with her head held up high, firmly believing she still has dignity inside of her. She sees Malaysia ushering her near the Christmas tree - which now has loads of Christmas lights and decorations - she reaches Malaysia who was now rummaging through a box and taking out a dozen Christmas lights.

"I need you to string those all over the second floor", Malaysia tells Vietnam as she forwards the decor to her arms.

"Why do I have to do this?", Vietnam asks, groaning.

"Because Philip is freaking out how there are only few Christmas decor", Malaysia states as she takes more decor out the box. "And you know how that asshole gets iffy whenever nothing is done."

Vietnam sighs, knowing she has absolutely no choice.

-

The party was in full swing once the Central Asians and the remaining of the South East Asians finally arrive. They were all wearing warm clothes and smiles, and Philip is eager to guide them all to the front of the manor to the very back of it. Indonesia busily tries to set the sound system, speakers and all, and Singapore helps his uncle. They set the curtains on the stage, the instruments and the bases. After all, some might even want to sing in their drunken haze. They also carry the karaoke up the stage, grunting as they did so.

("Why isn't Philip helping you?", Singapore grunts and almost stumbles when he takes a simple misstep.

"Asshole's lazy", Indonesia replies. "Wants to flirt with the girls all night.")

Meanwhile, Malaysia and Vietnam were busily decorating the entire place to make it look more...  _Christmas_ -er. Vietnam helps Philip by cooking the food as well, and luckily for her the man didn't utter a word that can hinder her cooking.

Kazakhstan runs towards the Central Asians and throws his arms towards them with a laugh. Mongolia smiles as he approaches them, feeling at ease that he at least knows some people in the party.

"Sorry for leaving you alone", Kyrgyzstan says as she's embraced in a hug by Kazakhstan. She high-fives Mongolia as they break apart. She points towards her friends, "those guys are really slow."

Turkmenistan scoffs, rolling his eyes after putting his gift and food in the designated places. "It's not like you were any better."

Tajikistan looks at Mongolia and they both shake hands. "Mongolia, it's nice to see you again."

"Me as well."

Uzbekistan looks around to find almost no one in the manor, "Are we still early or are we literally the only ones invited?"

"The Philippines said that Malaysia also invited some cities and disputed territories." Mongolia scratches his head; he still didn't get the absolute logic of inviting disputed territories, but the venue is the Spratly Isles so it makes everything even.

Just then, a trumpet sounds from beyond the door. Everyone turns their heads towards the entrance, brows furrowed. Philip sighs, knowing who the newcomers will be and walks off towards the kitchen to help Vietnam cook the rice. Mongolia tilts his head, confused to who was coming, until the door opens to reveal faceless men and women dressed in modest clothes, holding a red-and-gold carpet. One man in a shirt and baggy pants clear his throat as the others unroll the carpet, looking towards the door and bowing like footmen.

"Presenting the Arabs!", the man standing announces in a clear and solid voice. He urges for the others to clap, and they obey his orders (Philippines and Vietnam emerge from the kitchen with a pot of rice; the latter groans as she hears the announcement). "The man, the myth, the legend himself; Saudi Arabia!" The aforementioned man enters the manor, strutting on the path the carpet has provided for him. He lets the onlookers ogle at his outfit, looking baritone and simple except it was not; it was made with the finest silk, expensive jewellery and a wide smirk on his face.

"Miss Albahrayn comes next", the man says exhaustedly. Bahrain struts, high heels and all, hijab covering her hair yet still looking as glamorous as ever. She joins her boyfriend after she walks off the runway, and they both kiss, going deeper and deeper into it. Their audience applauds, silently wishing they would stop being extra.

"And here comes the beautiful and luxurious Miss Alkuayt!" Kuwait walks confidently, head held up high and sunglasses perched on her nose while petting all her jewels, red lipstick rosy and bright on her lips.

"Here is the handsome and kind Dawlat Qatar!" Qatar comes in with - of course - an expensive outfit, dark hair and beard trimmed and bright teeth shining, holding a jewel encrusted leash that is used to keep his disobedient cheetah at bay. He winks at the girls as he passes by; they roll their eyes at him. Qatar pulls his cheetah towards Philip and grabs his uncompromising hand.

"I need you to take care of my little Kitty", he says in a childish voice, and Philip blinks.

" _What_?"

Qatar groans. "Alfalabin, I know we don't see eye-to-eye on small matters, but please take care of my darling Kitty." Qatar breaks out into a soliloquy of how to take care of his pet cheetah, with Philip absolutely lost as Qatar's pet - Kitty is her name - absolutely  _refuses_  to collaborate with him. She yanks on her collar while Philip tries to pull her back, awkwardly smiling at Qatar who was still rambling about the do's and don'ts' of taking care of a pet cheetah.

"Next we have Miss Saltanat Eamman." The servant continues, looking towards a young woman with an elderly smile and face, her outfit the most modest out of the Arabs but still flauntingly rich. "And of course we couldn't forget about Alyaman." Yemen walks casually, a slower pace unlike his other friends, but still looking refined and rich as ever.

"And last but not the least; Al'imarat Alearabiat Almutahida!" UAE rivals the Saudi Arabia just how similar his clothes are to his, yet it had quite many patterns and all of his fingers have beautiful jewelries crusted into golden rings. After his show-off was over, everyone's applauds were louder this time and the Arabs bow. The servants roll up the carpet and the music, bringing forth the gifts and food to the designated places. Israel comes in with an exhausted look, rolling his eyes at the Arabs.

"Arab Peninsula?", he states, leaning against the door, his gift and presents in hand (he denied the servants from taking his). "More like  _Show_ - _Off_  Peninsula."

"Israel!", Philip calls, yanking on the cheetah's leash, thoroughly frustrated that he has been turned to a pet keeper. God, even he can't stop an extinction of an animal. "You know the rules."

-

The cold winter air touches Minguk's cheeks, cold and soft on his skin. He finds himself near a launchpad, the helicopter's helipad spinning like a goddamn top. His bodyguard and also pilot takes his gift and food and takes it towards the back of the helicopter. Minguk shrugs as his ears deafens the buzzing and noises of the vehicle he was going to ride on, then hops on it.

So he takes off to the night, the heights becoming even higher, the people now just dots, lights buzzing around him. He looks up to see the stars; so close, yet so far. He wonders if he can just touch them if he reaches so high, but he knows he's just going to fall of an plummet to his death.

Who said he didn't look forward to plummeting towards his death?

He looks at the stars again.

He gasps.

All he sees is Mongolia's dark blue eyes and beautiful smile staring back at him.

Minguk shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about that asshole through the night. He doesn't even want to look at him.

He just wants to party.

It is quite fascinating, that whenever you are in a high place even the tallest men can become tiny spectres of dots from below, moving like a microscope. Even the buildings that tower over him are now quite insignificant, not quite like unmoving specks but still under Minguk's eyes. His eyes hover over the party venue, very small underneath the height of the helicopter; the helicopter stops moving hovering lower and lower until it was safe distance for him to climb down with the rope ladder. Minguk's pilot gives him the rope ladder to throw, and Minguk does, as he climbs down, hands full with the gift for Mongolia and the food he has to share (horse head fiddles are quite long and heavy, and he prays to whatever deities out there to not let him fall).

His feet touch the ground, and he waves goodbye towards his pilot, who is now flying away from him and the party venue. When he turns his eyes towards the manor, he finds that he has attracted quite a lot of attention from the party-goers.

Especially the attention of Mongolia, who looked like he was going to pass out. The man stumbles in his step, like he was worried sick for Minguk, and the latter couldn't help but agree.

He failed his number one mission for the night.

"I thought you were going to fall off", Mongolia says with a noise between a cry and a laugh, embracing Minguk. "Please be more careful climbing down a helicopter seventy feet high."

Minguk chuckles. "I will."

("Gross", Brunei says, crossing his arms and looking at Minguk and Mongolia hugging.

Myanmar snorts, "Perhaps they're just friends.")

Minguk can feel his insides burst into flames, like they're debating whether he should avoid Mongolia for the rest of the party or he should just treat him as a friend for the rest of the night. No more of the past where they had drunkenly slept with each other. No more.

The party was in full swing once Minguk goes inside. He places the gift underneath the Christmas tree, telling Jedo he's done quite wonderfully as the organizer.

(Jedo smirks proudly, head held up high. "Of course, Christmas decorating is one of my hobbies.")

Minguk then asks - orders - Gonghwagug to bring his food-to-share on the tables, and Ghonghwagug groans as he stomps off towards the table, glaring towards Minguk as he makes his way.

("What an egotist." Ghonghwagug grumbles as he puts it near the others.)

Minguk looks towards Mongolia, whose eyes was set on one of his cousins, and he can't help but furrow his brows; he wants Mongolia's full attention and eyes on him only throughout the night. So Minguk does the unthinkable- wrap his arms on Mongolia's larger one, and it sure gains his attention.

"What is it, Ömnöd?", Mongolia asks Minguk, and the little bastard plays innocent.

"A...  _amugeosdo_ ", Minguk replies in a rather flirtatious tone (he denies he's flirting like the coward he is, of course). "I just want to... spend time with a  _chingu_ , that's all."

Mongolia's eyes light up. "Well, why didn't you say so, Ömnöd?" Minguk watches in glee as Mongolia ends his conversation with Kaza-whatever. He turns his head to Minguk once again, and he loves that attention. "So, how are you?"

"Quite fine, thank you very much", Minguk clings onto Mongolia tightly, and they are both taken aback by this.

Minguk tries to let go of Mongolia, he is just a friend after all, but a part of him loves Mongolia's fresh nature scent, like he has been out in the steppes for quite sometime. Then he does something worse- his disgusting brain did not hold back;

He stands on his tiptoes, trying to reach Mongolia's ear and whispers into it, "Why don't we eat first,  _hm_?"

He can feel Mongolia's heartbeat, its thumps becoming faster. He can feel Mongolia's breath, cool against his skin and steady. His dark red eyes were wide, as it turns to blue, then back to red, then to gold, the colours of his flag a kaleidoscope in his eyes.

"I-I  _tiim shüü_ , we should eat first." Mongolia runs a hand through his hair, face flushed with pink as he looks at Minguk up and down.

Minguk and Mongolia make their way to the buffet tables, where the Arab's servants has already unpacked the food everyone has brought and put it on serving platters. Everyone, be it country or city or some territory were all in a long line, to Minguk's displeasure.

So he pushes them away.

He pushes Senkaku isles, Northern Cyprus, Jerusalem away as he holds Mongolia's hand as he struts away from those nobodies, cutting in line.

"U-um Ömnöd", Mongolia tries to say but he was cut by Minguk pushing more people away from the line, each of them grunting and glaring at the couple.

"Move, I'm famous!", Minguk headbutts the last two in line, leaving a lot of displeased people behind them.

("God  _fucking_  damn it", Jedo says not far from them, "Minguk's ego strikes again.")

Once they reach the tables, Minguk's dark blue eyes find themselves land on Ilbon's gray ones. Minguk can feel his day deflate again once Ilbon raises a brow and crosses their arms, giving them a look like they were about to scold.

"Is that a way to treat other people?", they ask, their voice like a parent scolding a child. Minguk absolutely hates that tone.

"I seem to have spotted an absolute cunt", Minguk spits as he lets go of Mongolia so he can take a plate from the stack and fill it with countless foods, most from Mongolia's food-to-share.

"Ö-Ömnöd, that's not-", Mongolia tries to say but he is interrupted by Ilbon scoffing.

"Oh, resorting to immature name-calling, huh?", Ilbon says, "what are you,  _five_?"

"I'm much more mature than you could ever be", Minguk says.

Ilbon scoffs condescendingly and Minguk fights the urge to punch them on the face, "Alright, if you say so."

To Minguk - and Mongolia's - relief, Ilbon stalks off to join Jedo and his friends.

"God fuck, this tastes heavenly", Minguk says as he tastes one of Mongolia's foods.

Mongolia smirks, "The  _Khorkhog_?"

Minguk munches on the lamb more, "Yeah, whatever you call it.

-

" _Fuck_ , Philip, you really butchered the sound system", Malaysia says as she tries to reboot the system.

Philip scowls, still holding on to the cheetah as he looks towards its owner with a death glare, "Blame the cat; not me."

Malaysia gives it one look before rolling her eyes. "Tie it on a post or some shit dumbass."

Philip's eyes turn a red before going back to a dark blue. "Qatar told me to eat shit when I tried doing that." He discreetly gives Qatar the bird before turning back to his friend who was fixing up the speakers.

Malaysia snickers, "Sucks to be you."

"It sucks to be every single one of us", Philip replies with a nod. "Asshole thinks I'm gonna take care of his precious baby pet all night; I'll feed her to the fucking dogs."

Malaysia gives him a glare. "Don't you fucking dare."

Philip smirks a little, "I won't do that you dumbass, that'd take too much of my energy. 'Cause I have to either call Mexìco or España to get rid of her."

Malaysia narrows her eyes, "I fucking hope not."

Indonesia runs up to them, cellphone in hand. "Let's get this party started?"

Malaysia and Philip look at each other and smirks, "Hell yeah."

Both of them grab a microphone from the stands of the stage, tapping at it to see if it was on.

"Hello, hello", Philip mutters into the mic and as it works he gives the crowd - some are turning heads his way - a wonderful and bright smile. "Welcome everyone to our annual Christmas party! To the newcomers, the presents go underneath the Christmas tree and the food-to-share you brought will be on the tables right over there!"

"Anyway, we don't want to keep you waiting", Malaysia continues, waving her arms around, "it's time for us to declare this party officially started!" As if on cue Indonesia started playing Christmas music on the speakers, a smile on his face as their audience applauds.

Philip climbs off the stage (with the cheetah, of course; he can feel Qatar's judgemental glare on the back of his head) and into the kitchen, where he is met with Vietnam trying to hold the punch with her bare hands. Philip sighs as he has no choice and ties the cheetah onto a post - the feline doesn't seem to care - and help the girl.

"Why don't you remove that goddamn AK from your waist?", Philip tells Vietnam and she glares at him.

"It might get stolen by others", Vietnam replies as they both put the punch on the table, inciting a lot of party-goers to take plastic cups from a stack and dip it onto the punch bowl.

"Last thing I need is someone spiking the punch and eggnog", Philip murmurs as he leaves Vietnam alone, stalking into the kitchen.

-

Vietnam watches Philip walk away towards the kitchen, leaving her alone. She shrugs and takes a plastic cup and dips it into the punch bowl, bringing it to her mouth and drinking it, satisfied. She didn't have the energy or nerve to talk to anyone, so she stands alone, cup in hand. Her mind comes back to some men who made her Christmases special.

The first one was, of course, Philip; a dozen bright smiles and cheerful laughs can immediately brighten your day. Not that happy, yet still one of the happiest men in her life. She had enjoyed his company, even until today, making her laugh like there was no tomorrow. His kisses were sweet, yet they have never went beyond simple forehead nor cheek kissing. He'd bring her lavish gifts or presents that'd stop after the Martial Law Era, but she was fine with that. He absolutely loved his singing, though; it made her eyes go wide as saucers as soon as he opens his mouth and strums his guitar. Perhaps all of Spain's children are talented in singing.

("I think about you everyday,  _mahal_ ", Philip had said in the most meaningful way, caressing her and cradling her during a visit.

Vietnam laughed. "If you think about me everyday then what about your wife?"

He'd smile with a mysterious glint in his remaining right eye as he goes back to flirting with her.)

The next one was... unfortunately,  _China_. He remembered his glares and his lips curled into a scowl as he looks at Vietnam with a disapproving glare, crossing his arms. Perhaps he did not approve of her living. They only tolerate each other during Christmas because of Soviet Union, who invites them into his home until his death. They would laugh at the most recent news, join each other for a smoke and take care of the children and tuck them tightly until they finally sleep soundly. She had remembered actually talking to China one night.

("How are you this Christmas?" Vietnam let out a puff of smoke; she and East thought it was funny that they sometimes make out irregular shapes.

"Never been better." China lit up a cigarette stick and stuck it on his mouth. "I'm with the love of my life."

Vietnam scoffed as she looked to the night air. "Sometimes I can still see him, you know. In my dreams."

China nodded. "You'll get used to it.)

The next was Soviet Union, hard yet delicate to some whom he loves dear. He was stern, strict and silent, but he was kind enough to invite her to Christmas dinner every year. Even if she has to be seated next to Quốc and listen to the couple discreetly flirt as they dine, much to her animosity.

(She saw the way Liên Xô looked at Quốc with such loving eyes, like a man looking at a woman. She had thought that he had hated men in love with other men, but yet here he is, flirting with another man like he was a woman in need of love and affection. Vietnam caught them kissing in Liên Xô's room; she did not need to be so scarred early in life.)

Of course, this delightful Christmas dinner would be gone in just about a few years once Quốc threw his ring at Liên Xô during an argument, and his seat is now vacant every Christmas dinner until Nước Nga took his seat.

(Nước Nga laughed and smiled more unlike Quốc ever did, complimenting Vietnam's food to the point it had made her uncomfortable.)

Then there were the other men, like Laos, Myanmar, and Indonesia, making her Christmas pleasant enough. Indonesia was like Philip- a little optimistic here and there, some smirks that means he has some other ulterior motive for her, his sharp tongue seducing her yet she resists, because of course she does, he is too much to handle, too much to be with.

(Indonesia let her sleep in his room after she got too drunk from the spiked eggnog two years ago; she remembered his arms sliding up to her as she sleeps soundly, waiting for her hungover tomorrow. But she can hear him singing his old folk songs- she always thought it was quite odd that his singing would lull her to sleep ever so often, like he was a male siren.)

Myanmar's hands were as soft yet his fingernails dig into her skin like it was the last day of tomorrow, glasses perched on top the bridge of his nose as he closes the book he keeps reading whenever it was Christmas time. He has slight animosity with Malaysia and Indonesia - just because of their religion, nothing else - and keeps to Thailand and the others.

(Myanmar's smile can look quite aggressive, as he closes his book shut loudly for everyone to hear like he is angry about something.)

Vietnam remembers some women that made her Christmas special as well. She and America may have started off in a rocky relationship, Vietnam War and communism and all (Châu Mỹ is the one who intervened in her war), but they've become... closer over the years. Châu Mỹ usually does the Christmas decor, blonde hair tied to a bun as her lipstick-covered lips try to make out what Vietnam's gift for her is.

(Châu Mỹ is quite a pleasant woman to be with, actually, despite the fact they have both been on bad terms and are still tense for the day, but she had filled up Vietnam's cup with hot chocolate and smoked with her on the terrace of her house, looking towards the white sheet of snow. It was a silent mutual pact, and she hopes it stays that way for a while. Perhaps they had some form of respect to each other, if that were the case.)

Malaysia would usually spoil her with presents whenever she has the chance- it was a special holiday after all, her endless excitement towards the holiday just matching Philip's (except for the fact that at least she waits until the end of Halloween to start decorating her house with red-and-white candy canes). She would give Vietnam new clothes, shoes, like she doesn't know how to take care of herself.

(Last year Vietnam had received an entire wardrobe of clothes from Mal, she was perplexed but she does love the clothes and the way it matches her physique.)

-

Renmin would've shown up just in time for the party if it wasn't for the goddamn traffic. He groans, putting a hand on his hair as he waits for the traffic to subside. By this rate he'd reach the end of the party. He was at the tail of the traffic, which wasn't even moving for the past few hours. He sighs; even if he wakes up early and leaves work at three in the afternoon the traffic still appears with no escape. Renmin looks at his wristwatch; six fifty-nine.

(He had prepared his gift for Rîben and food during work hours under the watch of Russia, who was guarding him from Běi like the good friend she is. He owes Éguó big time. He remembered finally wrapping his present up when Éguó tells him Běi has gone home.

"How much do I owe you?", Renmin had asked, checking for his pockets if he had enough money to give to his friend.

Éguó had smirked lightly, and he can't help but feel bombarded of memories with Sulian before he replaced his old love with his daughter.

She yanked his tie closer to her, much to his surprise, and she puts his lips to his ear, "A  _date_." She let go of Renmin and walked off with a confident posture and a beautiful smile across her face.

She truly is just like her father.)

Renmin groans in frustration, the party starting at seven, knowing he'll be late. He presses the horn on his car, his vehicle letting out a noise, and much to his ire dozens of other cars let out large noises too, and he leans back to his seat.

(He knows those pesky Arabs are already there once the party has started, despite the fact they live the furthest among any region.)

-

"Malaysia, have you seen China?", Indonesia asks his sister as they were done counting the guests- almost everyone was there except for the man himself.

(Philip was busying himself on the phone, talking to his wife. He doesn't look pleased as he waves his arms up and down for emphasis.)

"He's not here yet", Malaysia states matter-of-fact. "Stop asking me where he is and let's just move on to the first game."

Indonesia looks pissed. "You said it yourself; we can't start the game unless everyone is here."

Malaysia sighs. "Fine, we'll wait until the end of the goddamn party if we have to."

Meanwhile, Daehan Minguk and Mongolia were busying themselves in the couch, surrounded by a reading Miyanma and Saudi Arabia and Balein snogging, the girl on Saudi's lap.

(Much to Miyanma's disgust two couples were now occupying the sofa, his reading time ruined yet he still continues to read, trying not to mind these two. Unfortunately for him, things got a little bit heated with Arabia and Bahrain to the point Jedo had to reprimand them for their public display of affection.)

Daehan's arms were draped around Mongolia's waist, clearly the slightest bit tipsy after drinking the spiked eggnog.

("And  _who_  spiked the eggnog?", Jedo had asked, suspicious eyes scanning the crowd but no one dared respond. He purses his lips, eye turning a crimson red and gritting his teeth. "Since everyone here's too much of a pussy to admit it, I'll just take out my expensive wine out of my stash, then."

Spoiler alert: Kataleu spiked the eggnog.)

Minguk sings a song from a Korean boy group, and Mongolia tries to make Minguk let go of him but instead the boy hangs onto him tighter, like a child trying to cling to their mother like a koala and desperate to be by her side. He sees the slightest bit of flush in Minguk's face, the way he looks elated at the fact he's straddling Mongolia right now, threatening to kiss him in a drunken haze. Mongolia is trying hard to keep his arousal out of Minguk's way - how and why he got this, he didn't know - and keep the joy in Minguk's eyes.

Mongolia smiles, looking at Minguk's dark blue eyes glazed with tipsiness, slurring his words as he takes another sip out of the spiked eggnog.

He takes the glass of spiked eggnog out of Minguk's hand, and the other protests.

"I think you've had enough of that,  _khair_." Mongolia leans back, his head touching Bahrain's legs as he hears their hushed whispers of flirtation.

(Myanmar lurches, shutting his book noticeably loudly, as he grumbles of horny men and women and leaves the sofa of unattended public display of affection and goes to another much vacant couch.)

"Give me that back, Mongolia", the way Ömnöd slurs his name makes his arousal even more aroused. Mongolia's anxiety heightens as he now realizes who gave him the arousal in the first place.

" _Chwihago sipda_ ", Ömnöd slurs once more, his hand brushing over Mongolia's arousal and Mongolia bites back a moan. Saudi Arabia and Bahrain stop their nonsensical flirting to stare at the couple sharing the sofa with them.

" _Muthir lilaishmizaz mithli aljins min alrijal_ ", Saudi Arabia whispers to Bahrain's ear, and she nods as she glares at Kuria Aljanubia and Manghulia, the former tipsy and unintentionally grinding his knee onto the latter's visible arousal, who was close to releasing a moan.

(Jedo had stopped his phone call with Missus Palau and was just staring at them with an unreadable expression, cup of champagne in hand.

 _They're really getting it on_ , Jedo thinks as he takes a sip of his champagne.)

However, for the straight couple, it seems that Mongolia and Minguk had heard their exchange and were now glaring at the couple.

"What the hell did you just call us?", Minguk furiously says, and Mongolia half-heartedly holds him back; he was quite tipsy and slurring after all. "Say that again to my face, Alabia, Balein."

"' _Iina qult_ ", Saudi Arabia snarls, smirking a little, "you're both disgusting gay men."

Minguk's blue eyes widen, and he tries to lunge at Saudi Arabia but Mongolia pins him down, worried for his safety.

" _Naneun homoga anida!"_ , Minguk bellows, trying to fight off Mongolia's bigger body off him to no avail; perhaps he being drunk is sapping his strength. All the while, Mongolia was trying to soothe and calm the man down.

(The others were not listening to their petty quarrel, Minguk's shouts has been drowned out by the Christmas music playing.)

"Ömnöd,  _taivshir_ ", Mongolia says softly as he pins Minguk down on the sofa, not minding how absolutely suggestive this pose was, at least he can calm the man below him down. He sings some of his songs which Ömnöd seems to like, mustering up the courage to sing from his throat. He rocks Ömnöd's body like a baby (he's obviously quite embarrassed) while singing, and his friend's breathing starts to calm down.

Mongolia looks down at Minguk with such soft eyes, the latter didn't notice he was crying until he feels his cheeks are tear-stricken.

" _Naneun_...  _homoga_   _anida_ ", Minguk repeats, softer this time, caressing his cheek and bringing him closer to his face-

Mongolia pulls himself out of Minguk's grip, and the latter's eyes fills with hurt. Mongolia can feel a pang of regret inside of him, but he shakes his head; Minguk is quite drunk and he doesn't know what he's doing.

"I can hear Malaiz calling us for truth or dare now", Mongolia says, getting up and offering a hand towards Minguk. "Let's say we go there now, hm Ömnöd?"

The man in question was frozen in place, in a sitting position as he looks towards Mongolia's out stretched hand, debating internally whether if he should accept this act of kindness. He takes Mongolia's hand, emotionless, as Minguk looks at him with an unreadable expression.

" _Uliga_   _gaja_ ", Minguk says coldly and Mongolia can't help but flinch as he walks off without him, not waiting for him to catch up.

-

" _Kuso_ ", Koku swears as they stumble from furniture to furniture, at the extent tripping on some of it before landing on their feet once again, glass full of cheap beer in hand. They didn't intake an amount of spiked eggnog like that idiot Kankoku had, but when Firipin decided to bring out his expensive wine and beer they immediately grabbed plastic cups and poured one for themselves.

At first they denied the eggnog, already believing it to be spiked - which it was, thanks a lot Katāru - but when Firipin takes out a dozen bottles from his hidden stash Koku knows when to get wasted. They smile like an idiot as they make their way through the party floor, the energetic music deafening their ears as they walk - stumble - to the entrance, closed and locked. Of course, they were missing one more party member, but they didn't bother.

(Kitachōsen was always never invited- after all, who needs an unhinged man threatening nukes every single way?)

Then Koku hears a knock on the door, the grumbling of Chinese on the other side, and they know he's come to crash their day. Luckily enough they had quickly maneuvered out of Kankoku's reach, that man is flirting the hell out of Mongoru, poor thing. So they open the door, and lo and behold; Chūgoku himself, intimidating and tall and stern. He was holding his gift for his Secret Santa, and a few foods here and there.

"Rîben", Chūgoku says, pursing his lips as he glares down at the drunk mess in front of him, who seems to not have a care in the world right now.

"Chūgoku", Koku says, slightly giddy from all the beer they have taken - was this their sixteenth shot? they lost count - and giggles in an out-of-character way. "You're late."

"I wouldn't be late if it weren't for the traffic", Chūgoku replies, fixing his hair despite the fact it was completely straight.

Koku laughs. "Alright, whatever you say so."

Marēshia and Indonesia run up to them, the former panting like they were out of breath.

"Thank god you're finally here", Marēshia says, pointing a finger towards Chūgoku, who only tries to cross his arms. "We were about to start the first game without you."

Chūgoku raises a brow, ever the pretentious piece of shit he was, "And that is?"

Indonesia beams, "Truth or Dare."

Koku chuckles, stumbling a bit until they gain Chūgoku's support, much to their surprise and embarrassment. "I love that game."

"I find it a grimace", Chūgoku replies, holding Koku's arms.

"Dare mo kinishinai", Koku slurs, and they can feel the taller's glare trying to stab him.

"Alright, let's go." Soon Chūgoku follows the brother and sister duo with a drunk Koku giggling under his grip.

-

Once Renmin and Rîben arrived to the massive space that was the living room, everyone had already formed a huge circle, talking to each other excitedly. Some had a bottle of beer, others had a couple of cigarettes on their hands or on their mouths, some even had the extreme audacity to be holding a packet of drugs (and right in front of Fēilǜbīn, much to the man's intense staring). He spots Minguo at the back, contentedly making bubble tea for the game, which is the demonic Truth or Dare.

Mǎláixīyà takes out an empty bottle of beer, and places it on the center of the entirely large cicle.

"I thought this was Truth or Dare?", Xīnjiāpō's voice sounds out from the hushed chatters, with a knowing smirk on his face. Mǎláixīyà glares at her son and just sighs.

"I spin the bottle first and whoever this bottle will point to is going to be forced to pick between truth or dare", she dumbly explains. "Not what you were thinking of, Singapore." Xīnjiāpō just smirks.

Mǎláixīyà spins the bottle, the glass bottle against the hard wood floor making noises that grates Renmin's ears. The crowd starts to chant, the bottle spinning to oblivion as the circle chants some more.

(Malaysia has the blandest dares and blunt questions of truth, so whoever gets to be picked by the bottle would be lucky.)

It stops on Myanmar, who was busily reading his book to the point he didn't listen to the chanting of other people. They weren't at all surprised, as Miǎndiàn fixes his glasses and narrows his eyes towards Mǎláixīyà, slamming his book shut.

" _Hotetaal_?", he asks Malaysia haughtily, voice of authority towards all. "I choose dare, if you're going to ask."

(Myanmar doesn't even want to attend the Christmas party but his friends forced him into this.)

Malaysia thinks for a moment, before smiling mischievously. "I dare you to down an entire bottle of gin."

Miǎndiàn visibly smirks, a condescending raise of an eyebrow completely making it look like he was sneering. "That's all?"

Mǎláixīyà raises a brow, "You didn't let me finish,  _bodoh_ \- I dare you to down an entire bottle of gin under a minute, no stops."

Miǎndiàn struts towards Mǎláixīyà, who was holding a bottle of gin and takes it from her, opening it. He can smell its liquid, trying to seduce him with its addictive qualities. Renmin offers to time the dare with his wrist watch, and once Miǎndiàn gives him a thumbs up to signal that he is ready, Renmin starts to time the man's drinking capabilities.

(All the while he is staring at his brother, who was still busily making the worst bubble tea flavors out there, seemingly still not noticing Renmin.)

The circle immaturely chants at Miǎndiàn to chug, and Renmin tells him the time every ten seconds - and his drinking pace goes faster - until the wristwatch cuts the chants with an urgent beep like it was a missile threatening to overtake the entire party venue. Miǎndiàn releases his mouth from the bottle of gin, taking a deep breath and panting, stumbling a few times until Thailand had the decency to support him. Mǎláixīyà takes the - seemingly empty - bottle of gin from Miǎndiàn and takes a look at it, before snidely grinning at the man being supported by Tàiguó.

"You didn't even finish it", she tsks, earning a laugh from a number of people and Miǎndiàn's face turning a beet red from embarrassment; seems his pride is easy to pop after all. She nods towards Minguo, who throws her a cup of bubble tea that looks concerningly green. "You know what the punishment is."

A few minutes later Miǎndiàn was vomiting on the toilet, hair held back by Tàiguó who asks him to breathe before vomiting again, wheezing breathes echoing inside the house but no one cares as the game begins again.

-

Minguo of course has seen Renmin enter the manor in all his late glory; he just didn't want to intrude on his businesses and he doesn't want to seem like he had something to do with his brother. He busily makes a batch of bubble tea in the kitchen, silently humming an old Chinese melody his mother had sung to him when he was young.

(Philip had offered him the entire kitchen to make, and, despite some disagreements in the past he seems to be casual around Minguo.)

It is quite strange hanging about with people who don't really recognise Minguo as a country - unfortunately almost all Asians don't recognise him as one - but he has been invited to a Christmas party and it is quite an honour to be with them, despite the fact he hadn't talked to anyone yet.

"Philip, I- oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else." Minguo turns to find a woman in a manteau wearing a hijab, crimson red eyes staring back at Minguo's blue ones.

"Um, hey", Minguo awkwardly greets; he was never one for conversations, especially with strangers he really didn't know.

"Hi", the woman lets out a small wave and an awkward smile. "Iran."

Minguo nods, "Taiwan."

Iran blinks, his name clicking in. "You're China's brother, right?"

Minguo affirms. "Indeed, Miss Iran."

Iran shakes her head, chuckling a bit, "Oh, don't address me as ' _Miss_ ', it's too old fashioned. Just call me Iran and we'll be just fine."

"What are you doing here?", Minguo asks as he goes back to doing what he was doing.

"Oh, I was going to make food for myself", Iran shyly replies, "I forgot to bring foods and - honestly - I'm only familiar with some dishes from my friends in the Middle East."

Minguo nods a bit, smiling brightly. "Well, the kitchen has many a materials for your cooking; don't mind me."

Iran smiles and thanks him as she walks towards the fridge to take out the needed ingredients for the food she was about to make.

(All the while the noises from outside did not slow them down their work- the people are still playing truth or dare and Minguo is absolutely trying his best to give Malaysia more disgustingly flavored milk tea for those who didn't complete the dares or never spoke of the truth.)

After a while Minguo can feel a tap on his shoulder as he fixes himself - and Rîben - proper bubble tea. He turns his head to find a shy Iran holding out a plate enough for one.

"I cooked  _zereshk polo_ , and I was hoping you'd like the way it tastes", she says, and Minguo smiles, politely taking the plate out her hands. He takes a recently washed fork from the sink, eyeing the delicacy with a hungry eye. He takes one bite of the food and instantly falls in love with it.

He starts to take more and more bites, savouring the way it feels on his tongue and lips, its taste to the point he didn't notice had emptied the plate until he looks down to find that there's no more of the delicious cuisine left.

(Iran's expression was a mix of mortified and appreciation for Minguo accepting her cooking.)

Minguo clears his throat, pink from embarrassment, "Thank you so much for the food, Yīlǎng."

Yīlǎng blushes with pride, "No problem, Taiwan."

With that, they walk out of the kitchen, hand in hand.

-

"Rîben!", Koku turns their head up as they hear their name in Chinese, and their smile brightens more as they see Chūkaminkoku approaching them with two cups of bubble tea in hand.

"Taiwan!", they reply as they wrapped around each other in an embrace. Koku takes one of the bubble tea Chūkaminkoku was holding, starting to sip on it.

(Despite the fact it tastes horrible after about an estimated count of twenty shots but they still love the tea.)

"Jesus Christ Rîben, how much have you been drinking?", Taiwan asks, taking in Koku's completely wasted appearance. They were blushing mad, stumbling quite a bit with Taiwan's support.

"A fucking lot", Koku replies, undignified. They take another sip on the bubble tea, chewing on the pearls.

(Truth or Dare had gotten quite boring fast, now some were just jamming into the Christmas music Firipin insistently kept on playing, competing who can drink the most shots without vomiting, somewhere in a nook or cranny kissing each other with passion.)

Meanwhile, Vietnam pours herself another glass of wine when she feels a hand ghost up her behind. She rapidly looks behind her to find no one suspicious to have done a douche move, so she goes back to minding her own business. Then she feels a hand pressing hard to her behind. She whirls around and catches India in the act. When he sees a pair of golden eyes staring back at him he recoils, but it was too late-

Vietnam grabs Ấn Độ's wrist, gritting her teeth. Ấn Độ looks quite afraid of her, and she absolutely likes that.

"Did you just fucking grope me?", Vietnam snarls, and Ấn Độ had the audacity to shake his head a no despite the fact she had just caught him touching her. She digs her fingernails into his skin. "You think I didn't see that, you asshole?" She lets go of Ấn Độ to grab her AK slung across her back and points it at his head; he looks quite shaken.

(He should, how dare he.)

"I d-din't mean to, I swear-"

"Didn't fucking- why I outta-"

"What the absolute  _fuck_  is going on?!", Philip exclaims as he enters the scene, ever so acting as the mediator. Malaysia holds Vietnam's arms, who was ready to either shoot or hit Ấn Độ with it.

"This  _vỏ_   _bọc_ ", she growls, pointing to Ấn Độ, "fucking groped my ass and he's denying it like the coward he is."

" _Ekschuse_   _mein_?", Ấn Độ speaks, raising a brow, "I was just minding my own business when you grabbed me by the arms, you  _paagal_   _kutiya_!"

"Don't make excuses!", Vietnam hisses, looking at Ấn Độ with immense hatred and anger, fighting under Malaysia's firm grip. "I saw what you fucking did."

Malaysia looks at Philip, who shrugs and turns to glare at Ấn Độ.

"Don't make excuses, India", he says, crossing his arms as he gives him the 'I'm Not Buying It' glare. "I wish to make this party safe for everyone, and it seems you're threatening that safety. I kindly ask of you never to take a single step to Vietnam's direction again in the entirety of the night.  _Umalis ka na, manyako_."

Obediently, Ấn Độ scampers away like the scared little bug he is, and Malaysia releases Vietnam from her grip, the latter breathing hard to calm herself down.

(Philip is quite a misogynist though; the fact that he supported Vietnam's statement is a miracle. The man himself has read the Bible for about four thousand times now, actually.)

"For a second there, I thought I was going to shoot him in the head and throw his corpse across the room." Vietnam laughs a bit, earning a laugh from both Philip and Malaysia.

"Asshole probably deserves it", Malaysia replies with a chuckle. "Asked me to send him nudes and I immediately blocked him from all social media accounts I have."

"He's kind of creepy, to say the least." Philip looks off to Ấn Độ, who was now chatting with an Arab country Vietnam did not remember the name of.

"To be honest, I'd choose your flirting from his touches." Vietnam's statement causes Philip's face to grow red, and she can feel Malaysia's aura of displeasure.

Philip smirks, touching her cheeks before retracting his hand. "Babe, I can flirt but I  _can't_  bang." With that, he kisses Vietnam's cheek and walks away with Malaysia, who seems to be chattering casually with him after the hot mess that is Vietnam and Ấn Độ.

-

Minguk ignores Mongolia for the entirety Truth or Dare session, sitting between Jedo and Ghonghwagug, who were both on their phones (the former was texting his wife while the latter was playing a mobile game), and he sees Mongolia sitting beside Jung-gug, who was busily chatting to Ilbon, which was out of character for the both of them.

(Then again, Ilbon was drunk as fuck, so perhaps they are being out of character.)

Minguk, still knows the feeling of being left out and jealousy despite his drunken haze. He furrows his brows as he drinks even more of the beer he had fished out from Jedo's stash (the spiked eggnog ran out, sadly), feeling his face heat up from the warm Asian flush it was giving him.

The bottle spins towards him, and he cannot say that he's the little bit surprised.

"Dare", he slurs towards Kataleu, who smirks.

"I dare you to sing the entirety of your favourite song", Kataleu says, and the circle starts to whisper. Jedo pats him on the back encouragingly, and Ghonghwagug mildly cheers for him.

He has sung thousands of songs from his lifetime, yes. From old, traditional Korean folk songs he has grown used of hearing from his mother, to the wretched Japanese melodies he was forced to sing for a number of decades, to the modern music Migug introduced to him, to the cheerful pop music he produces today. And to the masterpiece that is Mongolia's songs.

So Minguk clears his throat, getting ready to sing a song that has been stuck in his mind for as long as he can remember.

The first lyric cuts Mongolia and Jung-gug's conversation short, as they both turn to Minguk trying to deal with throat-singing (to impress Mongolia) and his inability to form coherent words (he blames how tipsy he is). He tries to keep the song in tune, but yet no matter how much he tries to throat-sing he has to stop to catch for a breath or his voice will crack, earning a laugh from the crowd.

(He absolutely  _hates_  being laughed at, ever since he was a child. He doesn't like how mean-spirited children seem to be, even by today's standards.)

But as he's done more fuck-ups than singing, and with the whole crowd laughing at his expense, he can feel his anxiety kick in. He swallows it down, trying to remain calm as he continues singing, but even then, doubts starts to circulate around his head, voices whispering about how he is a failure and how he cannot compete with Mongolia.

Minguk wants to scream, and he does, slowly but surely. He ignores the tune Mongolia's song is going for, not anymore throat singing as his voice starts to rise and rise and rise; there was also no more melodic tune into it, like he was just screaming.

Which he is.

The entire crowd goes quiet as the singer in front of them slowly goes insane, screaming and trying not to cry because that would be a blow to his big and awful ego. Their trying to keep their anxiety under control, pride out and ego bursting.

And then Minguk stops with his screaming-singing, the silence like a vase shattering a glass of noise. He locks eyes with Mongolia briefly before running towards the bathroom, heavily wanting to empty his stomach, who is now the victim of his anxiety. He flings himself to the toilet, absolutely vomiting his insides out like it was nothing. His stomach churns and his muscles on his chest burn. He coughs, noticing how bits of his digested food got into his hair which made him vomit out his insides more.

"Ömnöd?" Minguk grimaces- why is Mongolia's voice so soft, so caring? Why does he have the kindest eyes and why does Mongolia care about what is happening to him? Mongolia knocks on the door, and Minguk only responds with a cry. "Ömnöd, please answer me."

Minguk starts to feel the tears in his eyes threatening to spill all the more, his breathing getting laboured and his chest contracting to the point he cannot breathe any longer. But Mongolia cannot see him like this. Like a... a weak, fragile and vulnerable creature. He just can't.

"Ömnod, if you are not going to answer me, I will break this door open." Minguk shakes his head, clutching at his chest as he coughs up more bile from his throat.

"One..."

Minguk tries to bar the door with his body, but a single move inflicts pain onto him and he now refuses to get up to face Mongolia.

"Two..."

Minguk chokes, feeling his tears finally spill from his eyes as he gives up with hiding his emotions.

"Three!"

He flinches as he hears a loud crash in front of him, followed by a concerned gasp from a voice he knows all too well.

He feels two arms wrap around him, but he can feel his muscles strain even more so he pushes Mongolia away from his shaking and shivering body.

(Like how he has pushed away everyone in his life.)

"Ömnöd, are you having a panic attack?", Mongolia asks softly and slowly, the tone of his voice laced with concern that it sickens Minguk so much.

(Mongolia reminds him so much of his mother it's making him weep.)

Minguk whimpers as he tries to get further away from Mongolia, who shakes his head dejectedly.

Then, he sees his mother take the place of Mongolia, kind eyes, a warm aura surrounding her, hands on her lap, her face full of concern.

(Now he cannot differentiate his mother to the man he was damned to love.)

"M-mama", Minguk chokes, becoming the child he once used to be before the empire of the sun came, stripped them of their land, their honour, their culture, and of their mother. He had longed to see her again, but yet he did not see her after the defeat of the man who had ruined their lives. He reaches his arms out, weeping silently as big arms scoop him out from the floors.

That is not Eomma's arms. Eomma's arms were gentle, soft, motherly. These were hard yet gentle, but he still feels strange underneath all these.

"Look at me."

Minguk finds himself in a soft bed, and he looks in front to find himself face-to-face with Mongolia, face stern yet soft. He longs for the arms that has let go of him, yearns for them to take him to his comfort zone.

"I'm sorry, Mongolia."

He then feels a kiss on his forehead, much to his surprise.

"What do you have to be sorry for?"

"I... I'm just being..."

Mongolia laughs, and it makes Minguk's heart beat faster and face grow red.

(He is disgusted by this fact and wishes to hide this revelation from the world.)

"If anything, I'm the one who should be sorry, for denying you friendship."

Mongolia feels a familiar weight on his body, and he sees Minguk getting comfortable in his arms. A beautiful sight for him, really.

"I want to go downstairs", Ömnod demands, and Mongolia smiles and chuckles.

"Alright then, dear. Also I absolutely loved the way you sang my piece, if you're wondering."

-

Philip would tell everyone he hates Christmas and that would be a fucking lie. They would laugh and joke about what they have done this winter season, and Philip would join in to, because of course they'd have many a tale of Christmas to bring up.

("One time Bangsamoro accidentally knocked into Cebu's skateboard", he told excitedly, fingers digging into his scalp as he stresses over the controversy that is his drug war, "both of them were to be sent to the hospital immediately."

Everyone had laughed, because they would, and Philip really wanted to shoot them like he did with the addicts.)

But it seems that a call from Palau and seeing his brothers attend the Christmas party meant to take stress away ruined his goddamn day the most.

(If he had the choice to shoot either his brothers or his wife, he'd pick his brothers- he's still in love with Palau for both of them to consider mutually murdering each other to death.)

Which is why he did not know how and why he was playing the game of naught that is Never Have I Ever.

(Perhaps he had been too drunk to even care or notice his surroundings at all, preferring the people around him to go about explaining to him what is happening right now.)

Thank god Qatar let him tie that damned cheetah to a post, now he is free to get blackout drunk with absolutely no consequences.

"Never have I ever", Koku slurs a bit, as they hold on to their shot glass like it's their entire lifeline, "had sex."

Almost everyone in this room drinks after Koku's statement, and Philip downs his entire bottle down to the core. He asks one of the Arab's servants to fetch another one for him, and they are speedy enough to give him what he needs.

(It is no surprise how everyone here are not virgins anymore, to say the least. Philip lost his after a night with Katipunan; that woman was something.)

Only Koku, Vietnam, Thailand, Indonesia and Myanmar did not drink from their shot glasses, much to everyone's sniggers.

(From what Philip gathered, it was because Koku was an ill asexual, Vietnam has no interest in such things yet, Thailand is not looking forward to getting laid soon, Indonesia thinks pre-marital sex is atrocious and Myanmar is busy committing genocide against his ethnic minorities to care for a pathetic thing such as  _sex_.)

"Who wants to go next?", Koku asks, and Philip raises his hand.

Philip clears his throat as he tries to think of something that is so subjective and inappropriate to the point perhaps no one is ever safe from drinking whatever the hell Taiwan brewed. "Never have I ever... killed a family member?"

Much to his surprise, only a select few have the actual gall to drink their shot glasses. He drinks too, feeling the vodka burn his throat for what seems like a hundredth time this night.

(He's never really liked vodka and the way it tastes- he prefers the brewed beer in cheap stores or the fine wine in many a fine dining restaurants.)

"The fact that only a few of us drank means you guys didn't have any satisfaction murdering your family", China says, drinking another shot of whatever the hell is in his glass.

"You're saying as if we were satisfied of murdering our own kin", Thailand replies with narrowed eyes.

"A little on point, but, yes- after all I got the entire land to bow down to me."

(Philip can hear Taiwan growl, but he has no care in the world for their brotherly feud.)

"Messed up shit", Vietnam replies, dangling her legs on to Cambodia, who looks more or less unaffected.

(The Khmer Rouge is, how does Cambodia put it, an ass.)

"My father is one of the most cruel men I know", Cambodia says, her arm of flesh ghosting her arm stump, "I had to take him out."

"Which is justified", Myanmar nods, looking up from his book and back down.

"The only thing that isn't justified is you committing genocide on the Rohingya peoples!", Bangladesh spits, who was between his brothers India and Pakistan, who seem to be glaring at each other along the way.

Myanmar rolls his eyes. "They are not my people. They are yours. They would not learn that they are living in my land that they are disgracingly over populating."

Bangladesh resorts to screaming into Myanmar's face, who was unhinged and goes back to reading his book. The man screams some more, being held down by his brothers until his throat is sore and the vodka in his system kicks in.

Philip looks at them with tired eyes, knowing that they would be mature enough to not fight of the recent controversies in a party meant to relieve stress and absolutely enjoy the night they are having.

(Perhaps Philip isn't enjoying his night as well, for the past three years his corruption streak has been growing and growing to the point he digs his nails through his skin for the sheer amount of people he has to please and how uptight everyone is of him. Perhaps they do not get that drug addicts are supposed to die, should be erased from history as worthless scummy criminals with no shame and no future. He has never enjoyed a single night to himself.

No matter how many favours his favourite men and women ask of him, they never repay him, because they, like him, are selfish.)

He sighs to himself as he stands, much to everyone's curiosity being piqued.

"I'm just gonna smoke a few sticks", he says, pointing to the door. "Continue your game."

(Perhaps he truly hates the addicts littering the streets, yet he pays no mind to how he demands taxes and pays his people's money on lavish luxuries in his life, dooming his country more into poverty.

Sometimes he would kiss up to the more lavish and powerful countries, needing money; and he pays them no attention, disliking them all.)

He looks at the mistletoe above the door way, and he sighs- only a few kisses were available during the night, and they were already from couples who purposefully stand below the mistletoe. Absolutely no excitement whatsoever. Philip sits on the wooden porch, taking out a box of cigarettes and picking one of them then taking a lighter out. He loves the way the flames can flicker an inferno of orange before burning the cigarette and dying suddenly. Philip puffs on his cigarette, and he feels a weight on his shoulder.

"I thought you said you'll ban smoking." Malaysia takes out his box of cigarettes and lighter - without permission like the wretch she was - and lights up one of the cigarettes, putting it on her mouth.

Philip shrugs. "The wonders of relapsing and never recovering from cigarettes."

They lapse to a comfortable silence, with them looking at the stars and the winds trying to tell them how chilly it is in the tropics. Philip's hand fixes the hair covering his eyes and adjusts his eye patch to the right place.

(He hates it when people call him a pirate, whether it be a joking manner. He would want to shoot them in the heads with a gun, be it a real one.)

"Your statement back there", Malaysia breaks the silence. "Was it to find comfort that you're not the only person to have murdered a lovely family member?"

"To find solace into thinking that others had done what a sick fuck would do, yes", Philip replies, gazing at the stars. "I wonder how life would've been like if I did not kill my mother."

(Perhaps he would've been exiled from his father's court- if he cannot prove he was masculine enough by killing his mother then he is not worth anything to him anymore.)

"Your mood is...  _somber_."

"I'm not somber; I'm just reliving family memories that would've been rewritten forever."

"And you should stop doing that- it ain't healthy for you. For anyone else. Let's talk about South Korea's flirting with Mongolia."

Philip recoils from a looming sadness in him and looks at Malaysia with a disgusted look. She was also pursing her lips after the topic change.

"They're kind of repulsive", Philip confesses, "a sin that God will not accept and send them straight to hell where they belong."

"The truth- except I don't approve of Brunei's stoning."

Philip nods. "Me neither. I can tolerate the homos as long as they don't touch me or I'll punch them in the face and push them down the third floor. But Brunei,  _puta_ , I think he's going too far."

Malaysia chuckles, looking at Philip with her golden eyes, enchanting him even further. "Let's go back?"

Philip stomps on his cigarette, a small smile on his face. "Let's." He links his arms with Malaysia as they enter the house-

"Oh shit, someone's gonna have to kiss."

Philip and Malaysia's eyes widen as they look up to see the mistletoe hanging innocently above the doorway. The couple turn white, and a few of the countries who has witnessed the event grab their phones from their pockets to film the whole thing.

 _I'll kill them_ , Malaysia thinks, her hands sweating a little.

Philip looks a little white and sweaty, but he looks at Malaysia with a knowing smirk on his face. Before the girl had time to think, familiar hands cup her face and brings her closer to Philip's face- she was going red in the face, and the man holding her just chuckles.

"Don't worry dear, it's a one time thing." And their lips collided.

-

Pakistan wouldn't be lying if he says he wants to strangle Bhārat and obliviate him from existence. Apparently the asshole that is his brother groped many a woman this night - with Vietnam being a strong case of displeasure - and now he was badly flirting with an Arab woman.

Apparently only one person was not invited to the Christmas party - like every year - and that was North Korea. And who can blame them? The man was unhinged to the point of no return, always looking at men and women like they were a threat then threatening to nuke them himself. He did not have many encounters with the insane man but he has heard many tales of him.

Pakistan can also see why Renmin would not notify Choson Inmin of a friendly gathering and instead hides himself from him. Who can blame the man? Inmin has not heard of being invited to a Christmas Party (nor any gathering) for decades.

So imagine his surprise when he sees Inmin standing on the doorway, looking everywhere until he finds who he was looking for.

"Comrade Jung-gug!", he shouts, and everyone in the venue turns towards the party-crasher.

("I thought we agreed not to invite the weirdo?", Philip whispers to Malaysia.

"I didn't invite him", Malaysia replies forcefully. "I've never invited him for decades.")

Renmin grimaces as he hears his name in Korean (he hopes that it was Minguk calling him once again but no), and he turns to look at the person who considers him as a father he never had. Pakistan has always wondered; if Renmin dislikes the company of the nuke-loving man so much then why does not try to distance himself from him? Perhaps it is because of how unnaturally clingy Inmin is.

"Why didn't you tell me you were attending a celebration, comrade?", Inmin asks, genuine hurt in his voice.

(Pakistan feels uncomfortable with the revelation that a man as insane as Inmin can express such authentic emotions. For all he knows Inmin is faking the hurt- or is he not? The man expresses how lonely he is sometimes if he ever shows up in meetings.)

Renmin was not entertaining him, and Inmin wraps his arms around his waist. Pakistan could not help but chuckle. Renmin recoils at the sensation, as he discreetly tries to tug the man's arms away but now Inmin is acting like a toddler who is clinging on to their father like there was no tomorrow.

(From the corner of his eye, the Arabs were recording this in their phones, perhaps as potential blackmail.)

"Běi", Renmin says with a grim voice. He is not even trying to hide how absolutely done he is with Inmin. "How did you know I was here?"

"I overheard Leosia and Bellaluseu speaking about how you're in a Christmas party", Inmin explains, not letting go of Renmin, much to the man's absolute ire. "You are lucky I found you well enough, Jung-gug." He nuzzles into Renmin, and he it blanches the poor man captive of the hug.

"What the absolute  _fuck_  are you doing here, Inmin?" Pakistan groans as he can feel another fight incoming, as Minguk and Mongolia near the two. Inmin's grip tightens as he growls like a dog towards Minguk and Mongolia, the former unmoved and the latter showing concern.

"Minguk, what a...  _surprise_." Inmin drawls out the last word and Minguk, ever-so egotistic, raises a brow in question.

"You're the one who surprised me by showing your pathetic self in the party."

Inmin's remaining eye flares. "I'm pathetic? Why don't you look at yourself in the mirror and show me who's pathetic?"

Minguk's face contorts to one of anger and imperiousness. "At least I'm not some unhinged piece of shit that only lives inside the walls of his dead country."

Inmin lets go of Renmin's waist - to the man's relief - and lunges towards Minguk, who was bracing himself for the fight.

"You guys are fucking animals." Koku steps between the two Korean brothers, and the atmosphere with in the East Asians brew to enmity.

"That's ironic for you to say", Renmin says, and Pakistan couldn't help but be excited for the fight that is going to come soon.

(A few people were taking out recorders, urging them to fight- next time they might urge the Middle Easterns to fight among themselves too.)

Pakistan would hate being the mediator for this fight.

(Philip was missing; perhaps locking himself with either Malaysia or Vietnam in a room.)

Then again, sometimes Renmin would meditate the fight between he and Bhārāt whenever it goes bad in the Kashmir- perhaps he should do calm this situation down too.

But Renmin isn't entering the fight yet- he was locking his eyes with Koku, narrowing them and crossing his arms.

"What a hypocrite", Minguk snipes, turning to Koku. "Leave us be you fucking asshole."

"Well you both are assholes", Koku replies, "if you could just-"

"For god's sake, bi zui Rîben", Renmin growls, the atmosphere becoming even more tense. Renmin's hard glare is directed towards Koku, who jumps a little but remains unfazed, glaring at the taller man. "Let them be until they both calm down."

(No one dares cross Renmin once he glares at them.

Pakistan witnessed that the hard way.)

"Ömnod, please", Mongolia pleads with his friend, trying to calm him down, he looks at Renmin.

"I should've nuked you back when you just woke up", Inmin tells Koku, who remains unvexed. Koku sighs, trying to fix their smooth hair which was dishevelled from the drinking.

They turn to look at Renmin, then at Minguk, still struggling under Mongolia's grip. "I know we've had our grievances-"

"No shit", Minguk interrupts and Mongolia shoots him a scolding look.

"-but perhaps we can agree on kicking Kitachōsen out of the party." Koku and Minguk look towards Renmin, with a mutual understanding.

(A surprise, really; the three of them never agree on anything except for the fact that Choson Inmin can go suck a fucking dick.)

Renmin turns to Inmin with a small smile lacing their lips- he is the only one Inmin trusts after all, nobody else. "I need to show you a party trick, quick, follow me."

Inmin lights up like a little child and tails behind Renmin, who was chattering away naturally. Pakistan then sees that Renmin is leading Inmin to the front door he once came in and he cannot help but laugh a little, causing him to spill his drink in the process.

As he cleans his mess up from his clothes, he hears a "Hey!", and looks up to find that Renmin had shoved Inmin out of the door and bars it with his own hands, ushering Koku and Minguk to take something to bar the goddamn door because he is not going to be there all night long.

Pakistan hears the threat of nukes from outside the manor, but he could not care less as he walks up to Renmin and gives him an abandoned table leg and Renmin sets it between the door knobs where it belongs. Pakistan can hear Inmin banging and demanding to be let it, but at this point everyone was too busy laughing and applauding for the East Asian Holy Trinity (coined by America herself).

(Philip finally appears in the scene a little late, hair messy and clothes crumpled as he tells Indonesia to make the music even louder to drown out Choson Inmin's promises of a nuke.

"Did you-", Indonesia looks at his friend up and down, "did you get laid?"

"Maybe", Philip replies, an enigmatic aura surrounding him as he buttons up his collar, "now put those horrifying kpop songs in full volume to drown out the motherfucker's threats.")

-

A select majority - and by majority most are countries - huddle around a bottle, waiting to be picked. Quite a lot are actually looking forward to see who the bottle lands upon and what chaos and destruction might bring; like a mistletoe hanging innocently above an ignorant couple's eyes.

"I'll go first", Saudi Arabia volunteers, who was sitting far away from Bahrain, who was with the other Arabs.

(Saudi Arabia was sitting between Iraq and Iran, both minding their own business. He has calculated the radius and distance it takes for the bottle to spin; it can not miss her. He has also measured the strength he needs for spinning the bottle and it pinpointing towards Bahrain.)

And so, with a flick of his finger, the bottle spins. The man who has spun his fate prays to Allah, hoping he gets the woman of his dreams. Everyone's eyes were pinned to the bottle, intrigued and silently anticipating that the bottle does not stop at his girlfriend, because that would be too boring already.

(There is a reason why Saudi Arabia volunteered to go first and it it because he does not want his lips to be tainted by others'.)

Then the bottle stops.

The crowd gasps, and so does Saudi Arabia.

It did not stop at Bahrain, much to her heartbreak.

It stopped at-

"Oh my fucking god", Israel stares at the bottle, mouth agape, then locking eyes with Saudi Arabia. He looks at Bahrain with true fear in his eyes, then back at 'Iisrayiyl.

" _Allahum aghfir li_ ", Saudi Arabia prays to himself, taking in calm breathes as he walks to 'Iisrayiyl's direction, feeling everyone's eyes upon him and the man he was about to kiss.

("This is going to be  _so_  disgusting", Brunei whispers to Singapore, who elbows him.)

Saeudiun steels himself for what was about to calm, scratching his beard as he cups 'Iisrayiyl's face, feeling disgust churn inside of him. Even just mere inches apart from kissing a boy is now disgusting him. What did he do to deserve his Spin the Bottle soulmate be a homo erotic man?

"I bet you're liking this,  _shadh_   _jinsiaan_ ", he growls.

"Believe me when I say I don't." Without a warning the blue-eyed man kisses Saeudiun with no warning whatsoever, causing him to recoil and lurch in disgust, feeling his inside shake with the feeling of a man - man! - kissing him with such a burning passion to the point he did not know what he is doing.

So Saeudiun grabs the Jew and deepens their kiss, trying feel some kind of friction in him but all he can feel is sheer and utter hatred and 'Iisrayiyl's growing arousal between his pants and Saeudiun wanted to vomit. This man loves what they are doing write now, this man loves doing a crime.

(He is well aware of 'Iisrayiyl legalising those marriages and honestly, he hates him even more by now.)

'Iisrayiyl pushes him off, and Saeudiun's mouth tingles before he stands and runs off to the bathroom.

Israel looks at the bottle on the floor, clearly unaffected at the fact he just made out with someone he has grudges with for a long time. He spins the object of chaos and it lands on Taiwan, much to the latter's surprise.

(He's not horrified like Saeudiun, though. Taiwan legalised gay marriage just this year.)

Israel is quite surprised at how much of a good kisser Taiwan is, pleased with the fact that he was not the only one to be openly, well, bisexual.

(Asians are so close-minded.)

This kissing game goes on and on, from Taiwan and Iran, Myanmar and Bangladesh (much to their displeasure, of course) to Philip and Vietnam (the latter surprisingly let Philip in) and then Bahrain and Minguk (the former was pretty much weeping she did not get the chance to kiss her boyfriend). Now Minguk has to spin and see who he is damned to get. He takes a breath, expecting the worst to come as he spins the bottle.

He prays it is not Mongolia.

It spins.

He prays it is not Mongolia.

It slows towards Ilbon's direction.

He prays it  _is_  Mongolia.

Minguk prays, crossing his fingers, hoping to land on a girl, any girl, just not men or Ilbon (Lord knows what he will do to them rather than kissing them).

The bottle stops.

Minguk stares at Mongolia, who was once seated next to Renmin again, and he sighs, accepting his fate as someone who eats men out.

(He will have to douse himself in holy water, despite the fact he was not religious.)

Minguk sighs, standing from where he was seated - between Jedo and Ghonghwagug once again - and makes his way to Mongolia, paying no heed to the whispers and the stares. He kneels in front of Mongolia, taking his hand, before slowly bridging the distance between them. Minguk hears Mongolia gasp, and he pays that no heed, drunk mind making him comfortable on the taller's lap, his mouth tasting like cigarettes and vodka he had the pleasure of intaking a while ago. He asks permission to enter Mongolia's mouth, and he obliges, snaking his arms around Minguk as the latter can feel his growing arousal. Minguk's tongue explores the insides of Mongolia's mouth, loving the way he groans. Mongolia has also decided to let his tongue enter Minguk's mouth, and he gasps, gripping onto Mongolia's hair more.

"Guys, get a room", Philip says with a joking tone in his voice.

(Philip maybe religious and homophobic, but not as radical as the others; after all, he has a same-sex marriage bill pending.)

Minguk and Mongolia break the kiss, trying to clean up their face where saliva was - shamefully - visible. Minguk immediately goes back to his seat, quite flustered, with Jedo and Ghonghwagug giving him encouraging pats on the shoulder.

Mongolia spins the bottle, and it lands on Renmin and they both share a brief kiss on the lips (everyone booed). Renmin spins the bottle and much to his shock it lands on Koku, who was next to Jedo and texting. Once Philip catches wind of the tense atmosphere he smirks and elbows Koku, and they turns to look at Philip inquisitively. Philip smirks, pointing at the bottle and at him.

Koku's eyes hover over the bottle then at Renmin, who was poised as ever. They sigh, turning their phone off, looking at Renmin with an expression of disgust. Koku and Renmin glare at each other for a while, before Koku presses their faces together then give Renmin a tiny peck on the lips.

The crowd immediately boo, but this time it has more intensity than Mongolia and Renmin only pecking each other on the lips.

"That was not spicy at all!", Malaysia objects.

"At least make out!", Qatar shouts.

"Make out! Make out! Make out!" The crowd's chanting deafens Koku and Renmin's ears, and they look at each other and decide to fulfill the request asked by the crowd.

So Koku makes the first move; ultimately colliding their lips against Renmin's dry ones. As Koku leans closer they smell the perfume Renmin usually wears on himself- a pretentious amount of strawberry-scented perfume fills their nose, as they deepen the kiss further, letting their drunken desires take place.

(They will regret taking how many shots they have taken in the morning. And also kissing one of their enemies.)

Koku's tongue demands to enter Renmin's mouth, and he - surprisingly - opens himself up, holding Koku's hips as they explore the insides of Renmin's tongue, panting and making suggestive sounds as Koku knees Renmin's rising arousal.

(They both are quite drunk after all; and perhaps a little bit horny.)

Koku breaks the kiss, both gasping for air, before they go back to their seats and open their phone like what they did was absolutely nothing.

It was absolutely something.

-

By the time eleven hit, everyone in the manor were quite drunk, slurring words as they start to do their own random things. Philip and the South East Asians were busily singing karaoke unashamed. Minguk and Mongolia were drunkenly performing on stage, the other East Asians showing off their talents to the drunk crowd below them. The Central Asians were cooking themselves dinner in the kitchen, their merry laughs heard. The South Asians were bickering and having a drinking contest, with India about to lose and Sri Lanka chugging more beer. The Middle East were perhaps just hanging around- Qatar was feeding his cheetah with meat, Saudi and Bahrain were off in one of the guest rooms.

Mongolia slurs most of his throat songs, and Minguk just cackles once he hears such sophisticated words come out of his mouth. Mongolia was holding Minguk's hips with one of his arms, mouth buried deep to a microphone stand. They were singing and having the best night of their lives, loving (and hating, of course) how they make each other warm and comfortable.

When Mongolia sees a broom stick being held by Maldives, he leaps from the stage and comes running - stumbling because he is drunk - and halts Maldives from even using it.

"Is this fine steed yours?", he asks the poor man in question.

Maldives looks at the broomstick, then back at a drunk man towering over him. He nods, unsure if this was the right call. "Um, yes?"

"May I have this steed?" Mongolia rummages around his pockets, drunkenly looking for a kind of bag of gold in his pockets. "I have to conquer that pesky Jurchen Jin."

"Y-you can have it for free." Mongolia's face lights up as he takes the broom - steed - from Maldives' hands and puts the broomstick between his legs, and starts to mimic a horse's whinny as he starts to run - gallop - around the manor, singing songs.

(It was so impressive that everyone turns their eyes to him, thinking that there really was a horse in the manor.)

Minguk takes out his phone to record the shameful performance Mongolia was putting on despite the fact he's drunk and struggling to where the recorder was placed. Mongolia takes a potted plant, dumping the plant and soil on the floors, then putting the pot on his head, which was now covering half of his face.

"Let us relive the Mongolian Empire!", he shouts so encouragingly, no trace of being the slightest bit drunk nor tipsy. "For the great Genghis Khan!"

The crowd of drunk men and women cheers, whether they were satirical or quite serious will still be a mystery until today. Some where shouting at Mongolia to get on the stage, to which he obliges with no absolute fight, still whinnying and mimicking a horse as everyone laughs with him. Mongolia starts to sing one of a few songs of his, voice just as enchanting as it is while he is sober. Minguk cackles as he records more and more of Mongolia's meanderings; Mongolia thinking Iraq was a bandit threatening his empire, him being poetic, and of course: Mongolia tearing his shirt apart to reveal himself to everyone.

Minguk did not know why but his mouth waters at the sight of his friend's sculpted chest, lowering his phone a bit as he stares at Mongolia, who was thinking he was the reincarnation of the Mongol Empire and singing about how he is going to pillage all villages and take all women and children and murder the men.

(Philip, Malaysia and Indonesia tipsily agree that they need to do the Secret Santa fast before everyone is banging in corners of the manor or too drunk to function.)

As Minguk cheers for Mongolia, he suddenly feels light, two arms carrying him around his waist. He gasps as he looks up to find Mongolia, chest covered with sweat, dark blue eyes brimming with desire. The smaller tries to get Mongolia to let go of him, but he persists. Everyone whoops and shouts, taking their phones out for documentation (or, blackmail).

"You are too beautiful to be with that miserable man", he drawls and Minguk cannot help but burn up. Mongolia leans into Minguk, and he gasps as he feels the man's hot breath on his ear. "Why do not we escape this mundane place; you shall be my queen."

"M-Mongolia", the man stutters, not thinking of anything to say. First of all, he was quite heated from staring at Mongolia's face and exposed body, second he is too drunk to make good decisions, and third they are both men, thus this is still disgusting.

(Also didn't the Mongol Empire ban homosexual relationships back when he had control of all of Eurasia?)

Without a second thought, Minguk locks lips with Mongolia for the second time this night, making everyone shout out cheers and whoops and claps.

(Brunei and the Arabs share the moment loathing the kiss.)

Minguk was holding Mongolia's neck, pulling him close. " _Naleul_   _jeongboghasibsio_."

Mongolia  _smirks_ , attacking Minguk's exposed neck with kisses with the latter moaning uncontrollably. Mongolia and Minguk's eyes lock with each other, as they walk away from the wide party room and into one of the guest rooms, the whole crowd exuberant and lively.

(Brunei boos at the couple as he drunkenly takes a few things around him and throws them towards the leaving couple, calling the couple undignified slurs. A majority of the Asians turn to glare at the bastard, and he was forced to stand in the corner.)

-

"I think we stalled the Secret Santa too much", Philip sighs, holding the mic. "So yes, we will have the Secret Santa and then we will party non-stop. Until you all drop and leave this place filthy like every year."

(Philip swears he is not guilt tripping them- he is manipulating them into cleaning his manor up so he would not suffer the consequences in the morning with a blazing hangover.)

"So it is my honour to begin this fine exchanging of gifts", he pulls his present beneath the Christmas tree with a smile, "my Secret Santa is none other than Israel!"

Israel appears right next to Philip, taking the present from his hands (he shakes it to see what he has gotten, only to sigh when he finds out it is another binder). He states his Secret Santa is Minguo; then Irān's Secret Santa who is Qazaqstan; then Renmin whose was Koku (much to their surprise), and Koku gives Philip his present. Since Minguk and Mongolia are unavailable due to making love - Brunei is Mongolia's Secret Santa to his dismay - Philip has to put their presents near the door they reside in, hearing them.

("I swear it will be one of those action figurines again", Philip mutters, groaning- he has become quite spoiled over the years.

Koku rolls their eyes, "I assure you, Firipin; not one of those action figurines I gifted you three years ago." They chuckle a bit, making Philip a bit wary.)

Renmin touches Koku's wrist slightly, and they turn to find amber eyes staring back at them. Needless to say, Koku was intimidated yet they stand their ground.

"What do you want from me?", Koku asks as Renmin motions for them to follow him. They both pass the hallways of Philip's portraits and picture frames, dozens of history being moulded into one art studio which is memory.

(Koku glances at a black-and-white photo of Philip in his military uniform during the second world war. They flinch and look away from it.)

Renmin stops near a seemingly empty door, and Koku's breathing starts to pick up. Then Renmin's lips collide with theirs, and Koku can feel sparks fly as they deepen the kiss, running a hand through Renmin's dark hair, loving the way his pants has become needy and distracting. They take no pleasure in this; they think his pants and mewls and subjective neediness is beautiful. No attraction towards it whatsoever.

When Renmin turns the knob, that is when they panic and push Renmin off of them, breaking the kiss. He looks at Koku with eyes of hurt, but they both know that they are both drunk, that they will forget this encounter in the morning as their hangover pounds their heads like it were the goddess Athena wishing to be freed from Zeus' head.

" _Iie_ ", Koku says rather shakily, looking towards Renmin with apologetic eyes. "I am asexual."

Renmin's eyes light up with recognition, then with regret and shame. " _Duibuqi_."

"I am sorry as well", Koku replies, not facing Renmin. "I am too conscious of sex-"

Before they can finish, however, they feel a weight upon them. Renmin's hands snake up from their waist then to their head.

"It's fine." And thus they kiss once again.

-

It was morning.

Oh how the party goers hate mornings.

Some have already left after midnight, while some stayed to do atrocious things in some of Philip's bedrooms.

(Philip would sigh as he enters a room that smells of sex.)

Minguk can feel a throbbing headache coming, and the urge to vomit. The curtains are parted way too much for his liking; the rays of the sun are waking him from his dream of tying a noose around his neck and falling to oblivion. He feels sore, like he had been dancing all night, but it was from his behind. Minguk can feel someone's breathing on his skin, and he shivers as he feels an arm around his - bare - waist.

He feels a sense of dèja vu inside of him, dreading to turn around. He feels sticky, the blankets making him more heated than before and it was not helping his incoming hangover.

He hears the person groan behind him, and he feels dread settle upon his stomach with bile increasing its way up his throat. The arm around his waist tightens, and he scolds himself for feeling affectionate warmth pool around his stomach.

"Good morning... Minguk?" He blanches as he turns his - naked - body towards Mongolia, who was naked yet wasn't covering his body with a blanket.

Minguk tightens his grip on the covers, letting out a scream.

He and Mongolia emerged from the room with their clothes, avoiding each others' gazes as they come to the dining room.

(It was conjoined with the living room and Philip and Indonesia took effort in rearranging the dining table to its proper place.)

Philip and others were busily eating breakfast, looking as if they were going to pass out. Philip glances in their direction as he slides them a few painkillers to aid their hangover.

"How are my favourite couple doing?", he asks pleasantly, no trace of malice nor blinding bias in his voice. Minguk and Mongolia look at each other before glancing away.

"We're not a goddamn couple", Minguk spits; from the corner of his eye Mongolia flinches.

Philip rolls his eyes, "Ah, this is the incessant denial Miss Estados Unidos was talking about."

-

 **Bonus** :

"So, are they a couple or are they not?", America asks as she rewatches the video of Mongolia carrying Minguk bridal style for the umpteenth time.

Canada sighs, "You do know that you've been asking South that same question for over a few months now."

"And the answer is always a forceful 'no'", America replies. "I know that."

Canada scoffs, "Isn't Mongolia friends with Russia? Poor guy's going to be in trouble when she sees the video."

A call from - lo and behold - Russia interrupts their jolly morning. The siblings look at each other, with America sighing as she takes it.

A shrill, "You corrupted Mongolia didn't you?!", comes out of the phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Bayarlaa- thank you in Mongolia  
> Konbawa- good evening in Japanese  
> Mahal- love in Filipino  
> Amugeosdo- nothing in Korean  
> Tiim shüü- yes in Mongolian  
> Khair- love in Mongolian  
> muthir lilaishmizaz mithli aljins min alrijal- disgusting gay men in Arabic  
> Kuso- fuck in Japanese  
> Dare no kinishinai- who cares in Japanese  
> Hotetaal- yes in Burmese  
> 'Iina qult- I said in Arabic  
> Naneun homoga anida- I'm not a homo in Korean  
> Taivshir- calm down in Mongolian  
> Bodoh- idiot in Malaysian  
> Uliga gaja- let's go in Korean  
> vỏ bọc- shithead in Vietnamese  
> ekschuse mein- excuse me in Hindi  
> Umalis ka na, manyako- leave, maniac in Filipino  
> Puta- shit  
> Allahum aghfir li- Allah forgive me in Arabic  
> Naleul jeongboghasibsio- conquer me in Korean  
> Iie- no in Japanese  
> Duibuqi- i'm sorry in Chinese
> 
> Khorkog is a Mongolian food where lamb is cooked inside a pot over an open fire with carrots, onions, and potatoes  
> Zereshk polo is an Iranian food which is a classic rice dish is studded with the red berries, which are dried and then rehydrated before cooking


	26. it all went wrong when your mirror shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The German Empire reevaluates his memories, from start to finish.

Deutsches Reich felt death over take him in such an easy flow, him struggling first in the seas, trying to take the binds off of him, before ultimately failing as he succumbs to the stab wound Weimar - no, that’s not his cowardly son - had inflicted upon him. He was not ready for this. Was not ready for his child to act so harshly and criminal against his father. He was not ready for Weimar to turn to-

That is not Weimar.

Deutsches Reich’s eyes widen, his lungs filling with water, puncturing him with a thousand knives as he stops struggling, to be frozen in place. He looks at the amount of crimson that he has let out of his system and into the seas. He wonders if sharks will come and devour him whole, sparing no single thought to why he is here, why he is a floating carnage. They are, after all, predators.

The last thing he sees before his eyes clothes and drags him to oblivion is the shadow of his son’s - son? - boat rowing away.

He can feel his immortal body give up, heart beat slowing, his lungs numbing and knives stop puncturing the very core of his insides. He is now at peace, no matter how forgotten his body will be, no matter how humiliated he was.

He feels the stab wound heal itself, the skin sewing back and the blood drying, and he gasps.

His heart beat is gone.

His body is as cold as the seas that had murdered him.

His lungs were not functioning, yet he was  _breathing_.

How was he breathing?

The Deutsches Reich opens his eyes, to find himself in such a light atmosphere he has to shield himself.

He was alive.

But how?

 _Why_?

“D-Deutsches Reich?”, a familiar voice he never thought he’d hear again reaches his ears, yet his body is still cold.

He tries to remember who had that voice, a young, pre-adolescent voice whom had pleaded with he and Österreich during the last days of his life. The voice that had cried of how much it hurts, of how much he is hurting because of his condition. Österreich wept, Deutsches scoffs and calls them both cowards as he walks off and lets them have their alone time regretting their decisions.

He cannot help but miss the young boy, though.

Then he feels a small, thin body collide with him, not enough to make him fall but enough to startle him. He flinches as Confederate’s arms brushes up to his stab wound, but he calms himself down and hugs the boy he had lost in his life. Confederation was crying, and Deutsches Reich holds the urge to slap him like in the old days. He lets the boy’s tears stain his clothes, a modest shirt he had picked up in his dying years.

Confederation - finally - wipes his eyes, and observes the way Deutsches Reich now looks, and the man himself furrows his brows and tries to look away.

“You’ve… changed.” He awkwardly points out, and Deutsches Reich scoffs.

“Not quite, young man”, Deutsches says, “but I’ve learned enough not to bully you again.”

Confederation smiles a bit, as he embraces Deutsches Reich one more time. Such contact surprises him, as the boy hesitates to even touch him in the most friendly way. Perhaps a night or two in this strange realm changed his behavior slightly.

“So, where am I?”, Deutsches looks around to find himself on a field of flowers, then on a blazing and heated battlefield in the trenches of the Great War. He jumps back as he gags, trying to remember what it feels like for the mustard gas to come their way instead of the other. Confederation holds him for a bit, trying to comfort him in a sense, and he dislikes this. He dislikes the display he has become weak over the years, and so he shoves Confederation away from him, much to the boy’s surprise.

“You’re in the afterlife”, Confederation replies to Deutsches’ hanging question, “it’s where all the dead souls go. It’s meant to be a haven for us.”

“Then why did I see the…  _trenches_?”, Deutsches chokes out, feeling himself growing colder and colder.

“It-it does that. It makes you remember your haunted past. Pray tell, how did you end up here, dead after all these years?”

“My damned son murdered me in cold blood.” Deutsches Reich says angrily, but he can’t help but hear a hint of hurt escape his voice, and he regrets that suddenly.

Confederation’s eyes go wide. “What?  _Weimar_ murdered you?”

Deutsches shakes his head, “That was  _not_ Weimar. That was something else. Weimar would not have the courage to murder me in such a mundane manner.”

“How… did you die?” Confederation was looking up at Deutsches Reich with those big worried eyes of his, and it is making him want to tell the boy all about his grievances throughout the years he was alive.

“I was stabbed on a boat in the middle of the night by my son - perhaps he is not my son - and pushed into the water while bound. End of story.”

“But… why would Weimar do that-”

“That was not Weimar.”

Confederation looks at him with a conflicted look upon his face. “W-what?”

“The man who murdered me is not Weimar.”

-

“And another member into the house hold!”, an elderly man exclaims as Deutsches Reich and Confederation finally enter the large home of the German Family. It was a short walk, right when Confederation was annoyingly talking about what he has done in the afterlife while Deutsches Reich was forced to listen to him. The man looks quite tribal or barbaric, no ounce of shame of not putting on proper clothes. He was holding a spear, his light hair surprisingly kept, his senile smile shining.

“Who is that man?”, Deutsches Reich whisper-asks Confederation, cutting his story short.

“Oh, that is Germania, our ancestor and the first person in the family tree”, Confederation says. “His son is the Holy Roman Empire.”

Deutsches clicks his tongue while looking up at Germania. “Ah.”

Germania instantly appears right in front of them, and Deutsches jolts a bit. He still has that old smile placated his face, looking at Deutsches with fascination. “Deutsches Reich, I have heard a lot about you.”

Deutsches crosses his arms arrogantly. “Where? From my late wife?”

Germania smiles. “Well, yes, but some are from the Rhine Confederation and his son. But mostly from your wife, saying you are a no good cheater who cheated on her with Österreich-Ungarn.”

They hear loud steps echoing from the inside of the house, and Deutsches Reich grimaces, knowing already who it was before she slams the door open to reveal Deutsches’ former wife, Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach. Her stance was fixed imperiously as the woman glares right at Deutsches Reich, and for the first time in his life (or is this the afterlife?) he is uneasy.

“ _Ehemann_ ”, Saxe says coolly with narrowed eyes as she approaches Deutsches coolly, “it is…  _nice_ to see you again.”

“We all know you are fuming and your ears are boiling,  _ehefrau_ ”, Deutsches Reich shoots back coldly, arms behind his back. “But I am dead. Surely you wish to pummel me to the ground by now.”

“I am withholding my anger.” She crosses her arms, like the stubborn woman she is. “I shall get answers from you before I hurt you.”

Germania clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable while watching Deutsches Reich and Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach have a lover’s quarrell. “People, please bicker inside of the house; it will make us look bad towards our neighbors.” Confederation seconds this by nodding.

All of them enter the house, so beautiful and majestic, yet so simple and modest. How does one design a building so consistently old fashioned yet it adds so many eras into one peaceful setting?

Deutsches Reich eyes the chandelier, remembering how he had met Saxe and danced with her all night, and then marrying her a month after they met, no regards of whether their relationship was strong enough to last in time. He remembers women flirting with him, how he had commented on their appearances, but yet he had never danced with the women during his father’s ball. Only when Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach arrives, he asks her. She was so elegant when she had come to the ball; dressed in her glamorous yet simple  _grün_ cocktail dress, her neck wrapped around in furs and her blonde hair stylized to look like a sweet, elegant and renowned lady.

He had felt a burning fire inside of him, a desire to get close to that strange and eccentric woman as she dances on the floor, denying men’s advances, letting her do what she pleases as her feet carry her body. The fire within him is scorching, is burning, is trying to slaughter him with his absolute curiosity of this woman. He has fallen head over heels for the way she moves and taunts him with her speed.

He had moved towards her, bowing like a gentleman would do as he asks her for a dance. To his surprise, she takes his hand, warmer than his gloves, and they start to waltz around the ball room. Deutsches Reich remembered how it feels like- scorching flames inside of him, spreading like wildfire aiming for his heart; butterflies soaring all around them as they help the couple waltz and turn; a hundred eyes upon them and Deutsches Reich could not help but stumble under the pressure, but the woman clings on to him tightly.

That was before.

Before he matured and turned to an adult he was destined to be, before he realized he didn’t have to listen to his wife, before he regretted thinking he could love her in the first place.

 _Before_.

“What happened to our child Deutsches?”, Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach demands as they reach a space closed off from others. Both Confederation and Germania were nowhere to be found; after all, they wouldn’t want to hear an argument between a couple.

“He is still alive, do not worry.” He doesn’t even know if ‘ _alive_ ’ is a word for what he has witnessed happen to his son. Saxe puts an arm around her hips, pursing her lips as she looks at her former husband with a skeptical look.

“How did you die, then?”

“I was taken to the sea by boat”, Deutsches replies vaguely, trying not to remember the salty and cold sea water as it tries to break his lungs like an animal clawing for an escape. “I was bound by ropes, and then my perpetrator stabbed me and pushed me into the water to drown and die of blood loss.”

Saxe arches a brow, “ _Und was ist mit unserem sohn passiert_?”

Deutsches tries not to break under his wife’s glare, remembering back when he used to respect his wife and treat her like a goddess. “ _Ihm ist nichts passiert_.”

Saxe looks at him with her big green eyes. “Liar.”

Deutsches didn’t have time to open his mouth as Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach pins him to the wall. “Liar! What has happened to our son?!” Her tone was hysterical, her walls about to break in a minute.

“Nothing!”, he replies, tone higher. “Nothing happened to our son!”

“Who murdered you?”, she asks as she pulls on Deutsches’ shirt, tears in her eyes, “ _who_ murdered you?”

Her husband doesn’t reply, and so she presses him to the wall more, fingers digging into his skin like a hundred gnats. She will know. She knows, she knows, she always knows.

Sudden realization sparks in her eyes. She now knows. “He… murdered you.”

Deutsches silently nods, not having enough energy to even speak nor counter his wife. “I’ve observed him for so many years, and he has finally snapped under the pressure those allies have did to him.”

Saxe’s hands’ grip soften after the realization, the lady panting hard as she looks down to the floor. Deutsches stays in that position, and he will only move when Saxe tells him to.

“Did he murder Preußen too? Berlin? His  _children_?”

“I cannot account if he will murder the children”, Deutsches says in a hushed voice, uncharacteristic of him, “but he will vanquish my father or keep him captive and break him.”

“Why? Who caused him to break?”

Deutsches’ brain supplies him an image of the allies laughing at their misfortune. “Pesky America, Frankreich and Großbritannien.”

Saxe curses under her breath, looking away from Deutsches, tears spilling down her cheeks. He makes no move to comfort her, stuck in his own limbo of emotions. They were all swirling in his head, and he doesn’t know which to turn to first. He hears Saxe starting to cry, and he can’t help but feel sorry for how they all ended up like they are- puppets to everyone, entertainment to watch, and personalities that beg to differ. He listens to her cry, tears pouring and escaping her hands that cover her face.

-

His dreams come to him with multiple subliminal messages, as he tosses and turns, trying to calm himself down as he remembers the cold night air and then the elongated water knives stabbing into him. He feels hands and their finger nails digging in to him, souls of the undead coming back to haunt him in dreading ways. He can see the pitch black eyes of the one he had considered a weak and pathetic son, now turned convict and has snapped under the pressure in all his life.

Then his dreams transport him back to the living world.

He finds himself in a room, a gathering of the League of Nations, he supposes. He sees Frankreich, smearing her repulsive face with lipstick, looking at her compact mirror. America was talking to her father, a serious expression crossing her face

Deutsches Reich blinks. Why was he here in the living world?

He hears the next sentence come out of America’s mouth and his blood runs cold.

“Weimar has been missing for a week”, she states, fixing her hair. “When I dropped by his home three days ago only Berlin and his children were there, all bruised and bandaged. They refused to tell me what happened to Weimar.”

 _If only they knew_ , Deutsches thinks to himself.

Why is he here? Why is he here observing what goes on after his death? He is nothing but a ghost now, existing in a different plane of existence where he can see them but they who still live cannot see him; an invisible man, a man of no life yet still watching them from beyond. Is this how ghosts feel like? To feel themselves stripped of their mortality yet be ignored by humanity and their family forever and ever, to the point they just wander as invisible lost souls until the end of time.

The door opens, and the air around Deutsches turns cold. He recoils, everyone’s heads turning to the man at the door.

It was Weimar.

But it was not.

Deutsches remembered those eyes.

So maddening and full of vengeance, wanting to take revenge against the allies like it’s the last thing in the world.

He looks towards Deutsches’ direction, and he flinches, knees buckling. Never has he ever felt scared for life.

No, he was looking right at  _him_.

He smiles as he tilts his head in an odd angle, and Deutsches never felt the fear so alive in his cold, cold body.

The man who was in his son’s body lunges at him, and Deutsches instinctively shields himself from his attack-

But his son’s claws never went through him to tear him apart - perhaps he phased out like a transparent ghost. But he opens his eyes once again, but he did not find himself inside the League of Nations building. He found himself in a garden.

A garden he remembered.

A garden that was lost in time, trees dying and its wood rotting, flowers wilting and the bright and happy colors becoming forlorn and monotone. He had sold this garden to a builder, who had wrecked what was once the Garden of Eden and turn it to the same colorless buildings he keeps on seeing.

Deutsches looks at his hand. Is his conscience bringing him back in time? His body was transparent, the morning sun shining a light through him like fragile glass. Why was he revisiting a memory he was so intent on burying forever?

He sees himself- no, a younger version of himself, running towards the trees that were bearing fruit. Deutsches sighs longingly, remembering all the childhood memories he had in this Garden of Eden before his father took him away to join him in meetings. He follows his younger self, who was running with a smile across his face.

Deutsches stops as he finds who his younger self was running to.

A young woman - no - that is Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach.

She was reading a book, and Deutsches watches his younger self pick up a rose from a rose bush full of thorns, flinching as the thorn of the rose stem pricks his fingers. Deutsches can feel the pinch but it is nowhere to what he will feel over the years.

“Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach”, his younger self calls for the young woman sitting on the bench, and she looks up from her book, curious.

“Ah, hello again Deutsches”, she says in a calm and melodic voice. Deutsches watches their interaction, feeling nothing but their love becoming a naught and nuisance through the years. Younger Saxe looks at Younger Deutsches’ pricked fingers and stands, quite worried. “Are you alright?”

Deutsches shakes his head insistently, “N- _nein_ , I am fine, I wish to give you this rose because it reminds me of you.”

The younger Saxe’s eyes shine, her face becoming as red as the rose. Meanwhile the older Deutsches looks at them with a stoic face, knowing how their love will turn out over the years.

How did this pure love turn to mismatched infatuation after a few years?

He grimaces. He was the one who proposed to her.

He sees the younger Saxe try and patch up his wound like the honest and caring woman she was and still is, but just not to him anymore.

To their son.

Where did it all go wrong?

He remembered the day when he stopped coming to this garden, having no more use of it. He had come back to the garden after ten years of neglect, finding it nothing but a botched up place and everything that made him smile gone- replaced by stoic nothingness; he just came back to sell it. He had felt chills running up his spine as he feels himself being watched by a hundred angry nature spirits, who had rotted away after their neglect, try to claw him to pieces for destroying their garden and destroying it more.

The garden, it seems, reflected upon he himself to- the Garden of Eden (of course he called it that) back in its youthful days was lush, healthy, and full of beautiful wonders, its beauty making it surround itself with other beauties. It reflects his old self; when he was a young, naïve and immature teenager, compliant and submissive to whatever the servants, his wife and his father say. Yet he was a happy child.

He furrows his brow, an ache on his chest.

He was happy like that.

He was happy as a fool.

He was happy with being the doormat.

Yet he was in love with his wife, in love with his life full of beauty and wonders and grandeur, where only his father worries of the government and not take him to meetings.

The meetings and military changed him.

His father said that he was not a man of steel yet, that he was all delicate flesh and soft bone.

It ruined Deutsches Reich.

And so he trained.

And trained.

And trained.

He would always return to his wife, pregnant and bearing a child, angry and cold, and ignores her as she tells him that supper is ready. Deutsches often would just go to his room and read something that will not hinder his brain.

His love for Saxe would meet the same fate as the garden- wilting every second and everyday, frustrated at how masculine she is, frustrated at how she thinks she’s the head of the household, frustrated on how they have turned their son to the same coward he was when he was a child.

Yet his father let him be until he has came of age.

He never let Weimar be.

(He remembered holding his infant Weimar with such fragility, ogling at how small the baby is and how he did not deserve such a blessing in life. Deutsches had called Weimar his savior, and he was; he had saved him for a lifetime of stress that week, and Saxe looks pleased.)

Deutsches realized where it had all gone wrong.

It was he himself that has done all these wrong deeds.

He who ruined his life and made it crumble, shaking himself to the very core. Deutsches Reich had shattered himself to small, meaningless pieces and take the fragments of his old self that is necessary for his training, leaving all the other fragments of himself disintegrate and turn to dust.

Oh, how  _wrong_ he was to consider Saxe and Weimar were the ones who ruined his life.

He looks at his transparent hands, then stares to the void, no purpose, no turning back, no nothing.

Deutsches had turned his back on everything he had dreamt of to an even sadder and more pathetic story.

He can feel the whole world go blurry, but maybe it was his eyes.

Deutsches Reich can feel weight crash into his lungs, making him heave for a breathe, as he gets sucked back into another memory. He lurches, wishing to vomit, as he sees that he is in the old house he has purchased for his brand new family. He is still transparent, void, not existing in the plane his memory exists in; he is just a watcher, an ultimatum and a beacon to behold.

He hears the door open behind him, and the faint cry of joy.

“Where is my little Weimar?”, his younger self exclaims happily as he phases through the elder Deutsches Reich- he shivers for a bit before ultimately stopping as he watches the couple and the newborn baby, sound asleep in his mother’s arms.

(Deutsches remembered how he and Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach got married; they snuck off to his bedroom one night, loving the way their bodies created the needed friction, their love a bliss throughout the night. He can still feel the soft kisses Saxe has trailed down the nape of his neck and he remembers loving her with such a passion.

A month later Saxe tells Deutsches she is with child, he panics and marries her.)

He looks on to the younger Saxe - who has not really aged much - smiling, holding Weimar gently in her arms. “ _Hier ist er_.”

His younger self lets out a noise of joy, and Deutsches cannot help but wince, remembering what is about to happen when he holds Weimar. His younger self takes Weimar gently from his mother’s arms, softly singing lullabies (he remembers singing them until he realizes that Weimar does not like it) and cradling him slowly and surely. The infant opens his eyes, and the young father coos, his smile widening, before ultimately faltering as Weimar’s big sleepy eyes turn to look up at him and start crying.

“Ah, he must be hungry”, he reasons, giving him back to Saxe, who cradles him until he only whimpers and sniffles.

Deutsches Reich looks on, knowing that his son is not hungry, and, rather, he was afraid of his father.

No matter how many times he holds Weimar with such a passion, his son only sniffles and cries. Like he was a monster, a terror from the deep. Saxe thinks he was holding their son callously, but he protests that he was holding him gently. After a few more months, he gives up, accepts the fact that his son is way more attached to his mother than he will ever be to him. And like fire, his spite grew until it burnt his body, an everlasting fire of rage in him.

Then his younger self turn to look at the direction of the door, but not behind him- rather right at Deutsches Reich’s eyes. His younger self looks at him sadly, like he knows what is going to happen over the years.

Deutsches Reich’s eyes widen as he was involuntarily pushed towards the darkest recesses of his memories, where no light is shining, where he keeps his childhood memories locked up with no hope of ever surfacing like his corpse in the real life ever again. He looks around; nothing can be seen from the blinding darkness surrounding him, and he wonders if this truly is the abyss of his memories.

A faint light surround him, and he turns and sees a - discarded - memory. It was of him as a child, playing with the late Rhineland Confederation. He gulps, seeing how happy he is as a child, no care in the whole world other than his happiness and joy.

He reaches a hand through the darkness, to feel this memory, to remember how and why he had discarded one of the only memories of he and Rhineland that did not involve the latter in pain and agony for the rest of his days.

But as he touches it, the memory and faint light of it disappears, leaving he even colder. Deutsches shivers, the unexpected temperature taking a toll on him, but he can tolerate the cold temperature. As he walks towards nowhere, his steps echoing on the non-existent floors beneath him, he sees another faint light and another memory. He runs towards it, feelings its warmth with his own fingers- it was of him as an infant, his father Preußen cradling him gently as he cries. Once again, he tries to touch it, to bask in the warmth and light it displays, but it cedes into the darkness, like a dying fire. Once again, he feels cold, but this time it was a kind of cold that he only feels during winters. He shivers, exhaling and seeing his own breath. He hugs himself in his own barren clothing, walking alone.

Another faint light lightens the abyss in his mind, and he runs towards it, wishing to bask in its warmth for as long as it wishes. He sees his breaths as he exhales, trying to drown the shivering cold out with his running. But as he reaches and touches the memory - a memory of he and his father playing, what a delightful remnant - it fades to black, and his whole world becomes colder every second.

He wheezes for breath; it’s funny how cold he feels now, wrapped around the Snow Queen’s finger as he tries to help himself not freeze to death. He will not succumb to this coldness he is feeling- he is the Deutsches Reich, and he will never give in to the blizzard.

But didn’t he already give in?

Another faint light appears - a memory of he after Rhineland’s funeral, sobbing in his room - and he runs, no matter how his legs have become brittle from the cold, wondering where this cold air has come from- from his heart? If so, he is at his own fault for encasing the dearest of memories in ice. Just like all the others, it vanishes and he is left to a surrounding even colder than before.

Deutsches Reich’s footsteps slows in motion, his breath becoming frosty, hugging himself and trying to find another light that he reminds himself not to touch.

(But every time he goes near a memory, he cannot help but feel sad and alone and solemn, as if this memory is his only bridge to who he was before, to who he was before the mirror shatters. He cannot help but reach a hand towards these warm memories, but by the time he tells himself not to make contact with them the light and warmth has gone out.)

“ _How much would it take you to love me_?”

Deutsches freezes as he hears that familiar voice, and he turns his head but did not see any light or memory anywhere. He resumes walking, feeling the air growing even colder and his legs stiff.

“ _I have caressed you many times- yet you only cry_.”

He breaths, trying to find where that voice has come from; it is too familiar, yet that was not  _his_ voice.

“ _Are you afraid of me, child_?”

He sees light, and he widens his eyes as he starts to run towards it, feeling himself freezing and dealing with the wonders of frostbite any minute. Deutsches finally sees the memory, and he gasps,

His father was caressing him as an infant;

And he was crying.

“ _Wo habe ich das schon gesehe_ n?”, he asks himself, looking at the memory, feeling his eyes going blurry every second.

Perhaps it  _does_ run in the family.

Deutsches Reich has to go back to the past, back to where it all began. Back to the place where had kept all his memories shut in fear of it bursting.

Another faint light appears in front of him, and it was of he and his son talking about his children. He takes a step, turning back to the memory he sees before - not fading - and steps closer to a memory of he and Weimar.

He wonders. His steps become slower as he walks away from the warm light, but he steels himself- this memory is going to give him warmth.

But instead, as he walks towards it, he can feel his skin freezing over, and his teeth chatters ad he tries to tolerate the cold. He bites back the blurs in his eyes trying to take over. Deutsches sees himself and Weimar - uneventfully - arguing.

“You should have just abandoned them to that whore!”, his past self says, and Weimar rapidly shakes his head and instinctively shields his infant twins from his enraged father.

(Deutsches had silently scoffed when he had done this- what is he trying to do, protect his children from a monster?)

“ _Nein_ , father!”, Weimar replies, trying to be level-headed as he tries to cradle the babies in his arms to sleep. “I would be  _happy_ to have them in my life.”

Deutsches Reich can feel himself grow colder, and he looks around; the darkness has trails of snow and ice, like they were cracking under pressure. He finds another light- closer to the recent memory he has watched, and it was of him and his wife, in bed as they laugh and converse like a normal, loving couple.

“What should we name him?”, his past self asks in a hushed voice (it has been a long time since he’s used to be gentle), looking at the bump on Saxe’s belly and she smiles.

“What name would you prefer?”, she asks lovingly and the Deutsches who is watching this memory cannot move- either from his freezing veins or to how he and Saxe used to be loving.

The Deutsches Reich in his memory, a young strapping teen, looks down with a warm glint in his eyes, then back at Saxe with a warm smile. “I-I don’t know.”

They both laugh- such a warm memory.

Why did he put it here to rot?

Deutsches Reich tries to touch the memory, but his hands stop moving before he can reach the tip of the faint light, before it vanishes completely, leaving him in the dark, frozen. He tries to move his limbs, but he cannot; like he was a stone statue stuck in place, showing the glory - or humiliation - of the Deutsches Reich, like he was telling a story through his pained expression and his out stretched hand.

“Oh Lord,  _vergib mir_.” He feels something warm slip out of his cheek, before hearing it drop to the floors, a silent echo following after it.

Is he going to stay in his vault of frozen and hidden memories like this forever?

Will he be locked up like his memories for eternity?

His memories are painful to watch.

Then something bright appears before him, like a faint light in the foggiest of nights in the sea, trying to guide the lost sailors to safety. Then it ultimately turns to an even brighter light, shattering the glass that is the darkness and abruptly putting an end to his frozen stare.

Deutsches Reich blinks as he stares at the majestic and golden light, glory and enlightenment in all forms. He feels warmth collide with his body, and he shakily sighs and receives the coolness with no hesitation.

The golden light then gives him a flurry of memories once again, a hallway of old and new remembrances that he both loathes and adore.

He composes himself; he maybe alone but he is still a man of iron. Deutsches tries to look at these memories unaffected, but every time he walks by a recollection there is an overwhelming feeling inside of him. Deutsches Reich chokes back a bit as he sees Preußen holding a bawling infant.

“These are all your memories”, he tells himself softly, “and you have thrown almost  _all_ of them into a vault to rot forever.” He feels something slide down his cheek, and with his bare hands Deutsches puts a hand to his face and brings it towards his eyes.

 _Tears_.

Deutsches did not even know he was crying- these tears seem to have been plaguing him ever since he has seen a memory of his. It was like a river coming down his face, a release of all his frustration and sadness in all his years; it has been a long time he has wept.

He takes a deep, barren breath-

And sobs harder.

He sobs, cries, wails all of his hidden frustrations, trying to please the overwhelming inside of him, trying to please the repressed feelings inside of him for so long.

He cries.

All around him, his memories fade one-by-one, without a fight, the golden light that had saved him from eternal ice fading, but he either cannot feel it nor he did not care- he will release the sadness he neglected for all these years.

“You have finally realized what ruined your life, did you not?”, he hears her voice through sobs and sniffles, and he rubs his eyes as he finds himself back in his room, with his wife on the doorway with a look of complete imperiousness.

(Of course, when has she not looked superior against him.)

Instead of a snap, instead of arguing back at his wife, Deutsches Reich embraces her, and her choked gasp seems that she did not expect such close contact with her husband that he had disagreed, argued, and fought with over the years.

But Saxe lets him hold her like back in the old days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehemann- husband  
> Ehefrau- wife  
> Grün- green  
> Und was ist mit unserem sohn passiert- and what happened to our son  
> Ihm ist nichts passiert- nothing happened to him  
> Hier ist er- he is here  
> Wo habe ich das schon gesehen?- where have i seen this before  
> Vergib mir- forgive me


	27. you got two black eyes from loving too hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> China falls in love with Russia, but the clutches of homophobia is strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some warnings to note- homophobia and a horrendously written smut scene by yours truly.

## Zhongguo Renmin would lie if he says Éguó did not give him the same feelings as his father had once did.

(No matter how many times he scolds and berate himself for this, he can't stop these sinful thoughts spinning around his mind and manipulating his heart to do countless of atrocious acts that will leave him reeling for the next eternity.)

Unlike Sulian, however, Éguó's feelings towards Renmin was soft and genuine friendship, preserved for the best and most important people in his life. There is nothing sinful behind his honey-laced voice, soft touches puncturing and opening Renmin's skin alive, and that blinding and beautiful smile that rivals- no, not the sun, but Sulian himself.

Oh heavens above, no matter how many countless times he has told himself that homosexuals are disgusting and horrible, he falls with a man.

A man who does not reciprocate the same feelings towards him, a final blow to his stone cold heart and solidifying completely.

He had to fall in love with two men in the same family branch.

When Renmin realizes he is developing alien feelings towards Éguó (he tries to remember when he had fallen in love with he) the man had tried - yet failed - to accomplish completely abolishing his feelings for him. He cannot make another mistake again, he cannot have his heart broken to tiny pieces once again.

(Whether the mistake be he and Sulian's failure of a relationship or being gay, it is truly a mystery to him.)

Renmin tries to act casual after his outbreak of feelings started, a manifestation of butterflies trying to rip his stomach open and to fly out of there after tearing him piece by piece until he's nothing but a something, a someone that had once been alive and so in love. But Éguó was absolutely not helping; his twinkling gray eyes and delighted smile painting across his features whenever Renmin enters a room as close as he, the ultimately drunk nights they keep having to satisfy themselves, his cold voice melting whenever Renmin is around makes him all the more warmer and the feelings worse to handle and tolerate than before.

(He remembered trembling in front of a mirror, staring at his reflection like it is the most sinful thing in earth and rips out many a strand of his dark hair to emphasize just how dim-witted he is.)

He tries hard to hide these feelings that will ruin his and Éguó's friendship, which horrifyingly challenging and difficult to manage whenever Éguó would rant about the homos running around his land (Renmin would flinch at the slightest mention he hates gays before laughing pleasantly and saying they're all repulsive); stranger - or friendly - women who'd talk or flirt with his friend to the point that something inside of Renmin wanted to make them disappear like those damned protesters (he insists that he just felt left out whenever Éguó talks to someone else- he had simply laughed and patted Renmin on the back and comforted him by saying he will always be there for him and his heart had leapt); and the ever tortorous game that is intimacy, with Éguó's gentle and soft touches absolutely making him melt.

(One time he and Russia went camping - it had reminded him too much of Soviet too - and he had forgotten one of his sleeping bags and insisted he can sleep outside with no cover at all but Russia had argued he might grow cold and he did not want that to happen.

So Renmin had to handle being caressed by his good friend for the rest of the night, sleepless as he feels Russia's arm around his waist, holding him close and soft breaths on the nape of his neck, making Renmin absolutely warm.

And cold at the same time.)

Of course, he is quite discreet with his emotions and feelings, preferring to keep them in a box locked by heart and brain to all. Éguó will never know of his sinful feelings towards he and risk their vulnerable friendship.

Then the New Year's Eve party drops by like a bomb that will predict the unforeseen future.

Renmin looks at the reflection at the mirror, taking in all the features he had grown to absolutely loathe over the years- but he cannot help but shake off the insults he had created for himself. He hums a small song in his head as he buttons his shirt up and takes a comb to brush strands of his hair. He hears someone open his bedroom door and turns to smile at Éguó, who returns it brighter and even more with a burning passion.

"Let me help with that, Kitay", Éguó's hands roam around China's clothing and buttoning up his sleeves with gentle hands made his heart skip a beat, face a little red as he calms himself down.

"Thank you", Renmin lets out a steely breath as he looks towards Russia- so breath taking in his casual outfit, highlighting his body, making Renmin's mind spam him with sinful and atrocious thoughts.

"Let's go now, shall we?"

-

The New Year's Eve party was even messier than the Christmas Party Fēilǜbīn had arranged less than a week ago.

(Honestly, Liánhéguó, the decorations were quite tasteless and bland, and most of the fairy lights are not even working properly. The food was quite horrible to the point he had to consult sink water for remedy.)

Renmin groans as he feels a presence near him and looks to find Měiguó with her own cigarette in her mouth, she smiles at Renmin, full of hidden spite and resentment (the feeling is mutual, so he does not mind).

"Awesome New Year's, huh?", she asks as she blows out a puff of cigarette to the grossly light polluted air- the stars are, to their disadvantage, being taken out by this reckoning force that is luminscent bright light. Sometimes Renmin wonders if the twinkling stars are even alive to consider the fact that they are too dim by now.

Renmin rolls his eyes, taking out his pipe, "Why are you asking me?"

America rolls her eyes, "'Cause you kissed Japan in the Christmas Party."

Renmin lightly smirks; a simple tug on the corner of his lips, really.

Ah, America must be quite jealous of the make-out scene in Spin the Bottle; he can still recall the fervor deep inside of him, wanting to claw Japan apart like they were some play thing that had opened up to him- before immediately backing off when Japan said they were asexual.

Of course, he and Éguó adressed the matter of the video where Renmin and Ríběn had kissed; Russia had just smiled pearly white and told him he understood it was a dare, with perfect honey voice and no passive-aggressive words, hands clasped around his lap like an obedient queen in front of her king, eyes glinting of genuine joy.

(Renmin could not help but smile a little when he sees Russia grit his teeth when Renmin was jokingly retelling his story of how he made out with Ríběn like it was the end of the world. He had let out a tiny chuckle when Russia tilts his head and, with furrowed brows, tells China that Japan must've been a horrible kisser.

There was a hint of possessiveness and jealousy in Éguó's voice but China had paid no mind for it.)

At least he had fared well than Mongolia; the boy received an earful from Éguó after he watches the video of he carrying Hánguó to a private room to do the do. Mongolia was promising never to do that whole drama again, and vowing that he will take Belarus to dates every weekend or every free time.

"Don't worry, I don't like the bastard", Renmin tells America half-heartedly, "they're not my type."

The woman's brow lift up a bit, "Oh? Then who is?"

Renmin scowls, taking his pipe out of his mouth and wiping it, "That is absolutely none of your business."

He did not wait for America to catch up to him- and why should he? She is the one provoking him and asking the intrusive questions (albeit only one but still) and making him at the very least uncomfortable. He catches Éguó's eyes - who is arguing with Wūkèlán - and the former immediately pushes his brother out of the way and approaches Renmin with a tired smile.

"Your friend - Filippiny, was it? - asked everyone to join truth or dare."

Renmin sighs as he puts an arm around Éguó, "As long as you're joining, I'll come." Russia's eyes glint.

"Seriously? Hell yeah."

Russia is absolutely wasted and shit-faced after many a shots of vodka and wine from the secret stash Canada had brought to the party. Renmin holds a shot glass of vodka while trying to hide his red face from Éguó, who is currently laughing and head on his lap, the source of his embarrassment.

From the corner of Renmin's eye, he sees America look at them with a troublesome smirk, and Renmin knows she's planning something.

He hears Ríběn and Hánguó arguing near the buffet- the latter was screaming and shouting, voice going an octave higher to anyone's liking - it is too irritating, next time Hánguó will break glass - while Ríběn, acting as the more 'level-headed' of the two crosses their arms while softly bickering with the flailing man in front of him, frowning and lips pursed to a thin line (although this would be expected from they; Japan is never one for coaxing someone to a fight or openly gloating).

(Japan had used up all their diabolical, rancid smirks in their second life, the shrugs limited to gestures they do not know of, cruel words replaced with annoyed tones and passive-agressive wording as if the many bombs America had planted on their land and Sulian completely making Teikoku surrender made them use up their malice to the point it had all went dry.)

He pays them no mind- they can handle a fight or two until they realize they are both embarrassing themselves.

"So", a voice calls out, and Renmin perks up from a stupidly laughing and drunk Russia - he is in love with his beautiful laugh too - and finds Canada, with a smirk on his face, red eyes looking straight at Renmin and Éguó. "are you guys, like, fucking?"

Renmin completely sputters; he should not be surprised at the inappropriate question he had just uttered out, but he sprays the vodka he is drinking all over his clothes and on Éguó's face, who seems to be too much in a bliss to care what his friend had just done. Renmin picks up his shattered dignity and glares at Canada who remains confident.

"Did you realize what you just said?", he asks as he unconsciously pets Éguó's short light hair, soft underneath his fingers and absolutely making him warm inside. "We're not fucking- we're friends."

"Comrades", Éguó slurs with a small smile. "We're fucking comrades."

(Renmin's face turns a light shade of red- he did not know if Éguó is backing his claim that they are only comrades or if he is just very drunk to the point he had no idea whether he's humiliating the hell out of himself.)

"You aren't fucking yet, but you will fuck", Philip says not far from them, eyes only on his phone. His statement releases a few snickers from the room, directed towards an embarrassed Renmin and a drunk Éguó.

Renmin pinches the bridge of his nose, ignoring the hushed conversation and a few laughs surrounding him; he coaxes Éguó to stand up so he can leave himself, his lungs heaving and breathing, making him wish for another smoke. He takes his pipe out of his pocket once again and starts to light it up.

(From Renmin's personal experience, smoking is much better than snorting cocaine or any types of drugs- the inhalants may put him towards the path of ecstasy and relief, but he'd resume such depressing state soon after the damned drugs supposedly enlightening his life goes down the drain.)

He opens the door outside, receiving the chilly cold air with a small sigh, lips parting as he brings his pipe towards his mouth, the smoke forming like a wisp and trailing to the moon, despite the fact it is far away, in space, in the atmospheres beyond where he resides. Renmin holds his pipe, wanting to savor the relief, when he hears the door open. He sighs loudly (he has no time for his composure to remain in him), turning to find-

A drunk, stumbling Russia?

"Kitay." His name in Russian sounds so... so exotic, like Éguó is trying to spell out his name in the most unique of ways, tying the string of love Renmin tries to loosen closer, even closer to his friend. Renmin had tried hard to pull these strings of love away from him, from Éguó- yet Earth treats them like porcelain, shaping and weaving their love story to appease their audience from beyond this realm, beyond the naked eye, because they are only tools to this sickening love scheme that heavens above had made. He looks at his friend with a slight smile playing on his lips, puffing smoke out from his mouth as he watches Éguó stumble to his direction before chuckling and helping the poor drunk man up.

Renmin can smell his vodka-laced breath, but he did not lurch at the stench; he has been far too used to his friends addiction to drinking, it has become second nature for the both of them. China would be the sober one, helping Russia get to his knees with the shivering hope he can actually walk, and not the other way around; China will always drink intoxicating and alcoholic drinks in private, hating the way these drinks burn his throat and make him feel the onslaught of an oncoming headache the morrow.

"Shall we head to your place?", Renmin asks his friend softly (a tone that he will only use towards dearest friends and no one else), but the man whom Renmin is supporting shakes his head.

"No... yours." Renmin nods, as he - while holding his taller and much larger friend - towards his car, grunting and stumbling.

(It wasn't because Éguó was heavy, no, but it is due to how his friend just leans on him. Renmin is quite strong and can carry Russia with no problem, thank you very much.)

He puts Éguó on the passenger's seat, safely putting his seatbelt on and hears a storm of Russian swear words - many of which are now familiar to his ears - but still think of these strange mutterings as music to his ears. Yes, love can deafen a man's ears.

Renmin starts his car, closing the doors and locking it (because Éguó has the fatal fascination of opening cars when it's in motion while drunk) and stepping on the breaks to drive silently throughout the night. He'd rather wonder about the many theories of existence and the different planes he exists upon rather than how Russia is still oblivious of Renmin's feelings, but, he is grateful this way.

They got to Renmin's place in absolutely no time, like time has slowed down and that the night is still young, still fragile, despite the fact it is midnight and the moon is shining a bright light. He parks the car near his home, looking at Éguó who - surprisingly - is trying to put himself to sleep.

Renmin loves the warmth surrounding him as he props Éguó up, who was pretty sleepy from the way he breathes evenly. Renmin smiles faintly, opening the door all by himself as he makes his way towards the guest room, and plopping Éguó down on the soft bed, causing the man to whine.

"Kitay." Renmin stops, looking at Russia with a questioning look. The man on the bed motions for him to come near them, and Renmin obliges; perhaps they need a drink, after all, they will have a horrible hangover tomorrow, or maybe they want to greet him a good night before they drift off to a heavy sleep, or he wants both of them to be in the same bed, sleeping under the covers-

He absolutely did not expect lips on his mouth, and the hard grasp of his shoulders and pushing him down towards Éguó's bigger and much muscular body. Renmin hides a gasp as his friend's (will he still call him friend after this?) tongue asks to enter his closed mouth, still feeling the hot breath on his lips and mouth, the hands holding onto his legs, the... arousal growing in him. He denies Russia the permission to guide him across the caves of his mouth, trying - half-heartedly - to escape his firm grip but Russia bites his lower lip and Renmin yelps; forcing Russia's tongue to enter.

He shudders; he remembers feeling this way when he and Soviet Union lost their virginity to each other, the hot and warmest touches resonating in them as they tear one another apart, biting and kicking and absolutely loving the way their sinful touches go lower, lower, lower.

He promises himself never to do it again, after his secret marriage with Sulian was annulled- null.

Then for the first time in decades, he opens his body up for his friend.

And his friend just so happens to be the once love of his life.

(Technically, Éguó has replaced Sulian with that title, now Sulian is just a void deep in Renmin's mind, calling out to him, wishing for him to return to his arms but he refuses, turning his back on him.)

As Éguó's tongue snakes up towards his cave, tasting, exploring the wet taverns of his mouth, China didn't notice one of Russia's hands going towards his lower body, clutching his growing arousal through his pants. Renmin moans as he feels him carress and make it even harder, letting himself become weak, surrendering himself to Russia. He feels him smile as he breaks the kiss, with Renmin whining from the loss of the heat in his tongue, before embarrassingly covering his mouth (either from the needy whine or realizing he has a trail of saliva coming down from his throat, he will never know), but Éguó gently traces his cheeks with his fingers, while his other hand pleasures Renmin's arousal.

"For all these years", Éguó breathes, hot on his face, "after teasing me, toying with me, playing with me for an unneeded amount of time, I finally have you in my hands." With a grunt, Russia reverses their position, now Russia is straddling Renmin and grinding on his legs and Renmin whining and moaning, arching his back so his arousal can hit Russia's leg for more friction. Russia tuts, unzipping his pants and boxers to let his member out, and Renmin gasps as the cold air hits him, enveloping and wrapping him around as the other man above him takes off his own shirt to let Renmin see the glory of he being shirtless.

(Well, it's not very surprising at the least- he and Russia had been taking their shirts off one another, making the former too heated to even function at the sight of Russia's shirtless and looking at himself and asking why he does not look like a wax statue unlike his friend, flawless and scarless and undaunting, looking at Renmin with a pointed look as if he's waiting for him to take his shirt off so they can bathe in a river spring during their camping trip-)

Renmin gasps as he feels a warm feeling surrounding his length, the tongue like a heatwave of many a desserts trying to puncture and make Renmin collapse to no effort at all. The hands snaking up his thighs, indicating factor that they are both going to do this scandalous and disgusting doing, and Renmin will experience another taking of his virginity and this time by Sulian's son.

He grips onto the covers, making a mental note that after all this is over, this... nightmare dream is over, he must take Éguó to another room to fabricate evidence they had done anything horrible at all. Russia must not know; if he does, he will trash around and throw a tantrum when he realized what he had done to Renmin and stop talking to him for the rest of his life.

A part of Renmin wanted to push Éguó off, away from him, and escape through the doors he knows he should have gone through before Russia wishes to talk to him (who is he to deny his friend a request?) but the part of desire wanted this, this momentous occassion to happen, where he is pinned down by Éguó and kissing him with a burning passion, marking him as his and always will be his, subduing him, loving him and treating him roughly to a varying degree and caring for him afterwards.

He listens to the latter part of his as he feels a pool in his stomach, wanting to be released into Russia's mouth, who is still working him up, ruining him, making him whine like the needy baby he was. China grits his teeth, as Russia licks up the length of his member and he cries;

"Éguó, I'm going to-" he screams as he unleashes a torrent of liquid into the man's mouth, white liquid staining Russia's face slightly and Renmin's chest; he breathes, shaking, embarrassed at the mess he made and wondering how his friend would react to this.

(Would he inexplicably tease him? Play and toy with him until he breaks? Would he encourage him release after release or would he just hammer down into him?)

"Aw, look at you, making a mess before we actually get the fun started", Russia coos, making Renmin flustered to even function, feeling himself practically die of embarrassment- he reminds himself to have a much firmer resolve, not giving into the pooling desire nor the pleasure Éguó has given him.

(He remembers the subtle touches Sulian does underneath the table, every time they'd had dinner together; the way his hands roam around Renmin's thigh as he eats or talks, trying to get a whine out of him to drop his spoon force his mouth to form a whine of all sorts. He remembers Sulian's cheeky smirk, lust-filled eyes and golden eyes staring back at his, waiting.

Renmin could not even last a playing and teasing with Russia's father, already pleading with the man on top of him to finish him off.)

"Do you have any lube?", Russia asks as he searches the room - the guest room, Renmin's mind supplies - for any possible places he could potentially have hidden any form of lubricant, and China absolutely knows where they are.

"I have them in my room...", he says suggestively, propping himself up with his hands, still under Russia's body, feeling his erect length on his thighs.

(Needless to say, he is just as turned on as Éguó was.)

Russia raises a brow, "Oh? Then go get it, Kitay." The way he says his name in Russian makes Renmin want to grind into him, pleading with him to finally pleasure him in the most abstract of ways, touching him in certain parts friends absolutely do not touch, ramming into him las he arches his back to get hit with more and more pleasure, screaming and biting his lips as Russia can go on and on.

China nods, and Russia gets up for the man beneath him to go fetch the lube in his room-

(This is the chance; to run straight to his room and lock the door, breathless and sweating and currently in a state of shock and heartbreak, quietly and slowly leaning down to cry, hoping Éguó would forget what has happened in the morning- to greet Russia with a smile and a cup of coffee in his wake, talking casually with no mention of their heated night that almost delved into the passion and-)

Renmin takes the bottle of lube from the drawers; full of toys, plugs, and every mention of sex ever. He remembers how he pulls them out whenever he was heated, tugging at them, panting as they enter him, loving the way they pleasure him yet hating the way they are not real skin. (And maybe the fact he wants to play with his entrance more than a healthy dose, yes.) He comes back to Russia, who has now stripped from his clothes; China's eye trail down from Russia's sweat-filled chest down towards his-

"We aren't supposed to do this", Renmin chokes - either from the size of it or from the sinful deed - looking at his friend dead in the eye. They were only supposed to be friends, comrades, brothers without a blood, not whatever sick and mangled game they are playing right now. There was something hot on his eye, turning the world blurry until he blinks, unleashing a warm trail down his cheeks. "W-we're supposed to be j-just brothers-"

He covers his mouth as he chokes back a sob- no matter how much his sick and disgusting mind wanted the man in front of him, nude and vulnerable, they could not do this. He feels two hands on his shoulders, but he does not dare look up from his hands.

Many thoughts ring in his mind at once.

He did not want this.

This is sinful and against what the two of them have stated.

He did not want to be subdued, to be a part of another's desire playing by.

But the sinful mind of his only pays attention to melting the icy desire frozen by a block of ice.

He wanted this.

He oh so wanted this.

It makes his sob even harder, as Russia's hands play with his hair before letting him lean into his chest - Renmin can smell the pure vodka and obnoxious amount of perfume on the other's - Éguó's arms snaking around China's back, tracing his finger tips on his scars, soothingly rubbing his back as Renmin continues to sob and choke and cough.

After a few more soft whispers in his ear, the quick kisses on the nape of his neck, and the feeling of Éguó's strong and sturdy arms snaking up and down his back did Renmin finally calm down, looking up at the taller's grey eyes, a mix of lust, desire, and concern.

"Are you sure you wish to do this?", Éguó asks, "before you are my lover, you are my friend."

Without a beat, Renmin kisses Éguó, to the latter's surprise, a choked sound coming from the other man as he holds the both of them closer, together, a perfect cadence of their love residing in the room, echoing as their hearts beat as one, creating a symphony only their skin can hear and feel. And Russia's soft grip becomes firm, calloused fingers digging into his back, deepening the kiss as he feels Renmin whine for even more.

No more was Renmin's intellect.

It has been overcome by the overwhelming amount of desire, his soul wanting this, wanting him to submit, to play the role of the girl.

Renmin then feels the other weigh into him, and he feels himself being pushed towards the general comforts of the bed, legs spread out, arms above him which are being held at the wrists by Éguó, looking at him with the utmost prosperity of lust. Renmin breathes in shallowly; they were about to do this, and nothing is stopping them.

-

He knows he should not be savoring this. Renmin bites his lip, trying to keep the tears inside of himself despite the fact his tear ducts has severely betrayed him during the night, with Éguó testing his patience and desire, moving up and down, smirking at the sight of China so submissive, whining and mewling as he thrusts into his tight caves with first his slender fingers and then with his entire length. Renmin remembered being a mess, begging, wanting more, wanting him to thrust into a spot as his back arches and he holds onto Russia for dear comfort.

But now the session is done, he cannot just construct the walls that had been broken by just one flicker of an eye from Russia, turning his insides to soft jelly. He feels the short breathes on his neck - although he is used to it by many camping trips and soft platonic cuddles at the back of the car - and the long hands wrapping around him, ensuring that he is there, safely tucked, and safe. Other times, he would snuggle deeper into Russia, but this was not those other times; they slept with each other, fucked, and they both enjoyed every moment of it.

Renmin tries not to get the horrible tendrils of sleep take him to dreamland until morning when Éguó realizes what they both had done and leave his home, scarred. How was he going to tell Éguó? Was he going to make himself forget all about this, give Russia a doll smile as he wakes up with a terrible hangover? Or will he tell the truth and risk their damned friendship he has built himself upon?

Renmin closes his eyes, trying to still his excited and enamouring heart, plunging up scenarios for him to discuss before his brain denies it all.

Then his visions supply him with a dream; a dream where he and Russia are actual lovers, in a world where they weren't so blatantly homophobic, reaching out into the other universes to make them get a hold of their relationship.

( _Russia would touch his cheek passionately, caressing him and Renmin sighing as he leans into his touch with a sigh and a smile, knowing that he'd only be his for the rest of his life._

_"I am your lover", Renmin would say with such love in his eyes, kissing the top of Russia's forehead, brushing away his blonde hair and Éguó will hold him closer, kissing him to the moon and back with a burning passion, as if they accepted the fact they are in love in the first place. Renmin will feel a hand on his hip, leaning in and deepening the kiss._

_After they break, Russia will smile warmly, his hands ruffling China's dark hair and saying, "I am your lover as well."_

_And they will love, love with all their hearts- draw little heart strings over their shoulders, kiss in the sunset unhindered, touch each other in parts they thought will be sinful and disgusting, but they will not care anymore._

_They are lovers._ )

Renmin wants to scream.

Why is he like this.

That is not a question.

-

China didn't even notice he had given in to the lullabies of sleep rocking him back and forth until he is shoved off the bed. He yelps as he feels the hard floors and the absolute pain in his back. He opens his eye, then looks up at Éguó, looking panicked and covering himself with the stain blankets. His mind is blank first, asking himself why Russia had just shoved him off the bed, then a fast forward of all his memories from last night gives his stomach a lurch.

" _Gǒu_   _shǐ_...  _Èluósī_...  _Wǒ_...", he chokes, trying to find his voice, " _kěyǐ jiěshì_."

Éguó shakes his head, taking a step back, his blue eyes full of horror as he realizes what he'd done. " _Net_ , there is nothing to explain,  _Kitay_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or; my least favorite one shot so far.


	28. shorts (part III)

Mongolia steps back, shocked and hurt Ömnöd had not told him of his predicament. His friend lets him step back, chocking and gasping and sweating as the rot on his chest visibly spreads.

"You should've told me." His voice is so soft, Ömnöd had to strain to hear it. "You should have told me you were turning."

"Well, what WOULD you do?", Ömnöd snaps at Mongolia, baring his teeth.

(Either he is giving in to his predatory instincts or he is clearly angry.)

"I could've... could've done something to help you!"

-

"South Korea, you mean a lot to-"

"Shut the fuck up."

A pause, from Mongolia's part.

Then he replies, "I will not."

-

"Why did you leave me, father?" Weimar's voice of full of spite and acid now, trails of red spreading across his thin and gaunt body like they are thread, and they are sewing themselves into he.

The Deutsches Reich was quick to reply-

"As your mother had said, I am a loathsome fool."

-

Japan would be lying if they said they did not like Amerika that way.

The truth is, they love her to the very core of their soul.

And it's making them feel weak.

-

Dr. Österreich can hear him.

Of course he can.

His beautiful voice was alluring, captivating and enchanting him to go from door-to-door, trying to find out where that voice and music is coming from, trying to remember if he actually lived with someone today. Österreich remembers that voice; he is the one who shaped it all by himself, the one who listens to it everyday with no fail as he teaches the boy many a lessons and music. He opens another door, but like all the others, it is empty.

He furrows his brow- he KNOWS he's here, that he is hidden beyond these walls like it was a painting, like he was alive but not really.

Then, a gust of wind, a whisper in his ear,

"You killed me."

-

"Give me exactly ONE reason why I'm supposed to put the gun down", Österreich says calmly, the device of murder pointed towards his head, feeling it burn him ever so slightly. He takes a look at the horrified faces of his friends and family, too shocked to move or speak.

Germany speaks, "Because we care about you, Österreich."

The man in question purses his lips, feeling his head throb. "Ha, quite funny Deutschland but I don't think you DO care."

-

Vatican mumbles a prayer, immediately kneeling once has ran a mile towards the chapel he had resided in. He holds his rosary, trying to to trip on his robes and fixes his wear. The beads are hard under his touch, closing his eyes once he sees the Christ, hearing the damned demons after him, wanting to tear the man apart to tiny pieces like a goddamn toy.

He is not a toy.

He is holy and he is the messenger of God from above.

He furrows his brows as he hears the hushed whispers of Satan and his demons, growing closer and closer, the stench of death lingering and trying to make Vatican choke.

He mumbles a prayer.

"Oh lord, save me from my sins."

-

Holy Roman Empire is dying. Right now, right this instant, feeling his immortality drain, his beautiful raven wings turning a shade of pale white, like snow. His feathers fall one by one, as he looks at himself in the mirror with nothing but an emotionless stare.

Long live his empire.

* * *

Ruchuu had died from many a stab wounds inflicted across her body, pain so real and impactful that nothing can ever live up to this moment. She felt her heart slowing down, trying to grasp her many movements, slowly breathing in and out as Teikoku - that bastard - unleashes his last jab towards her, straight at her heart.

(She did not know whether or not she was thankful of he killing her; she did not want to live humiliated and as another bride of a man, but in the worthwhile, she did not wish this terrible death on herself.)

She thought all of the unfortunate situations in her life would be over, a gunshot trailing over a person's body and immediately letting them see death. Ruchuu had wondered what the afterlife looks like, and how it would affect her greatly. And she wondered of her sons, and what will happen with them after Teikoku killed her in a brutal fashion.

But like the glory days, she is spurred with emotion and passion and life, like she had not suffered a brutal and painful death that shall make her reel for the rest of her life.

Then she wakes up- she is not in the room where she dies, she is in the streets of her kingdom, the assimilation fast and speedy, lightning from each street. Ruchuu was confused; should she be dead? Should she be in the heavens or a realm for the dead? Why is she back here?

Yes, Ruchuu witnesses the assimilation of her peoples to her horror, the incessant abuse her children went through Teikoku, and her own history being awashed and integrated to the Japanese. No one couldn't see her; she was in a different realm from them, and Ruchuu wonders if there were many different existensial planes outside of hers and the human realm.

She knows they are watching.

* * *

**Prompt- "Tell me a lie." "I love you."**

The Deutsches Reich would not be rewarded with integrity if he says he still loves his wife.

His masculine, outspoken, loud and opinionated wife.

He curls his lips in disgust as he sees Saxe-Weimar-Eisenach and their - weak, feminine - son playing the pianno in hopes that one day, their son shall dominate the music world. Deutsches did not agree with that; he wishes to raise a man, not some brightly picked flower his wife had picked from the edged garden walls, poised and prompted to learn measly women's work.

The Deutsches Reich would be lying if he said he actually loves his son; he'd smile and have a couple laughs with the men who are conversing with him, taking a spillage of a drink.

" _I love my son to the very core_ ", he would say, voice husk and slurred from the drinks of fine wine. The men would laugh and pat him on the back, making him forget his problems in his life.

"Papa?", Deutsches Reich looks down at his son, too small, to fragile, puppy-like eyes maintaining its innocent nature. He does not respond, only biting back a snap towards he and crosses his arms to look intimidating; this earns him a small laugh as his disappointment cowers. "Can you please tell me a lie?"

The Deutsches Reich does not think (when will he ever) when a short little outburst messes his son up more than he ever did. "I love you."

-

Two men were standing in a handsome and bountiful evening, looking towards the night sky like it is everything they have ever dreamt of. The first man - way older, smoking with a pipe - was looking down the ground, where the golden sands are, sparkly and glinting and reflecting the moon's light from above them. The other was playing with his hair, messy and unkept, too busy smoking to ever notice the chilly breeze around him.

The older man shivers as he wraps himself in a coat, looking towards the younger.

"Tell me a lie."

The second man looks at him, emotionless and with no time, "I love you."

* * *

**Prompt**

**“Fuck’s _sake,_  why are you like this?!”**

**"Unresolved daddy issues. Get out of my way."**

"Hey!", Philip ignores Mèxico's plea as he rapidly walks away from his half-brothers' eyes. This is the absolute last time he will attend a family reunion to please their mother.

(Who shouldn't have the  _right_  to control them anymore- they are their own man and woman, nothing can change that.)

Philip walks off, strutting silently, fists clenched and bros furrowed, biting his lip. Fuck, if they have the time to make absolute fun of him and his tales of ludicrous, then they'd have absolute time talking about Mèxico having sex with America.

(Oh, Philip knows all about that embarrassing story- from the head till the deepening core of desire.)

"Asshole, I'm talking to you!" Philip sighs as he ignroes and turns deaf ears on his elder half-brother.

(This occurrence is so relevantly regular, even back in the old days when Philip and Mèxico were colonies to their father- he and the others would challenge Mèxico's authority, and he challenging their wits as well.)

Suddenly, Mèxico overtakes Philip and blocks his way out, much to the other's incessant rolling off eyes and a scoff.

"Fuck's  _sake_ , why are you like this?", Mèxico asks through gritted teeth, and Philip just shrugs tries to push him out of the way, and, much to his irritation, he stands there with no reason to budge.

"Unresolved daddy issues. Get out of my way." Philip shoves the man towards a post, but aftet stumbling for a few minutes Mèxico eventually regains his feet.

(He's seen Mèxico stumble around, literally and figuratively, trying to think of a come back to say or actually stumbling.)

* * *

Fèlipe is absolutely petrified.

He looks at the broken glass on the floor, then on his hands- it hurt like hell, he can tell you that, but this will fade in no time; father's punishes are way more cruel and deadly than a mere divine intervention from the Lord above. Fèlipe frantically kneels down to try and clean the broken shards up, not minding the way it grazes into his soft skin like it is a knife puncturing into its latest victim, he flinches but keeps on picking up the glass shards from the floor before his father comes home.

He finally has the pieces on his arms - it hurt like Hell, digging into his skin and cutting and biting into it but he pays them absolutely no mind - eyes twitching and brimming with translucent tears because, oh  _God_ , it hurts so much.

But it will be better; he just needs to wear a proper suit and cover all of the scratches on his hands and he shall be gone from his father's displeasure.

(Needless to say he and his brothers are all in the same state of pressure around and about the man himself- one time Mèxico had the gall to talk back to their father and what did he get? A slap on the cheek and a scolding.)

Fèlipe looks around the doors, searching for one where he can hide his mistake for a short amount of time until his servants come and see the absolute mess he has made.

(Although he remembers there was a disposing room, he just couldn't remember where to find it.)

Fèlipe whimpers; these shards have been frustratingly acting up on his skin, cutting him loose and about, with the intention of making him drop these figures to the ground like the godless interventions they are. As the pain starts to grow - he could hide it no longer - his arms start to droop, letting loose a few shards.

-

Mèxico hears someone sobbing in the back room, and he sighs, knowing full well who it was before opening the door to face his younger half-brother, in tears and immediately looking up when he finds out he has been spotted. Philip composes himself, letting out a strangled noise as he stands up, wiping tears away from his remaining eye, a frown entering his face in just a second.

"What do you want, Mèxico?", Philippines asks with a hint of edge in his voice, as if he is trying to stop the release of a torrent of emotions (but that's a thing of his, it's already a usual).

"I heard someone here", Mèxico simply replies, trying to out do his brother.

(They know by now that they are not competing, nor they wish to outdo each other, sometimes they only do it in a joking or a fun manner.)

"Well, if you heard someone, it sure as  _hell_  wasn't me", Philip replies, looking around the room like there was a hidden person or a ghost lurking around.

Mèxico scoffs, "Please, Fèlipe-" - Philip visibly flinches as he hears his colonial name before relaxing and glaring at him - "-I know you were the one crying your heart out. Why? Palau got mad and told you you both need space? America refuse to give you money again? Daddy issues?"

Philip breaths shakily while glaring at Mèxico, "It's nothing like that, dumbass; I just remembered some...  _past_  events. Is all."

Mèxico blinks as realization strikes. "Ah, so you have a panic attack?"

Philip blinks up at him, thoroughly confused. "A  _what_?"

(Philip would constantly say that mental disorders are propaganda and that the only cure these sinners would need is praying to Lord itself, and he takes no other answers.)

"Ya know, having trouble breathing, crying, getting exhausted? You just experience something like that. Or maybe I'm being a little farfetched."

Philip utters out a laugh. "Damn, you and your little myths are out to get me too, hm?"

-

Austria looks at the old music notes Confederation had written, notes and signs and lyrics and crumbs staining the paper; it sounds so...  _so_  beautiful, already hearing its tune and how it goes, imagining Confederation in front of a crowd, singing, playing his instruments, and the audience applauding with such emotion that Confederation could not handle it and would run up to his adoptive father and embrace him warmly.

Österreich bites his lip- it is  _he_  who caused this poor boy's death, he who had seen him die with his arms bound to his and he crying and sobbing and never eating a whole week after the fiasco.

Despite all this, he can still hear the late boy sing.

It was maddenning Austria; how they are the only one who can hear it, hear his beautiful alluring voice and prompting him to search from room to room with no absolute person in there, save for he.

He'd go frantic- searching another, then another, to find the child's voice and expect to find his Confederation, oh his dear son, but nothing else but the full amount of abandoned notes his son left behind.

And so Austria reads them- from fhe swirling messages of happiness to the bright and beautiful melodies, wondering how it would sound of Confederations light yet full-hearted tongue.

He wonders.

Oh he wonders.

He wonders what a life would be with Confederation still alive, still by his side, living, breathing, a fragile candle flame never blowing out in a heat of the moment.

Austria laughs bitterly as he grabs his violin and plays the melody, choking back tears of regret that had made him who he is today.

-

North Korea finds himself in this... dream realm once more.

"Inmin!", he hears a voice call out to him, and his normally frowny face turns to a smile as he looks at his mother and father, who were both so safe and happy.

 _Safe and happy_? But they are  _always_  safe and happy...

Inmin shakes that thought out of his head; this is the kingdom of no return! Happiness and safety would always be the first thing at the back of his mind, nothing can unravel here. So he smiles and takes his mother's hand, embracing her ever so tight, like she had been gone from this world.

Why is his mind supplying this? His mother is right here, still with them, forever and ever...

"Inmin!" He turns to look at his father, but he screams as he finds nothing but the mangled corpse of his father, deep stab wounds inflicting his body to the very core of his body, choking and gasping for Inmin to help him, in his horror, the boy steps back, only to bump into another figure. He looks towards the man, and screams more.

Teikoku gives him an ear-splitting grin, eyes bulging and neck thin, as he points a gun towards his mother, who was crying silently.

"Don't you  _dare_  shoot her!", Inmin cries out angrily, running towards Teikoku, but it was too late; a gunshot was heard, and his mother drops dead towards the ground. Inmin looks at the spot Teikoku had occupied, only to find it gone, no trace of he in the sight.

Inmin looks at his father.

A corpse, eyes towards the now red sky.

Inmin looks at his mother.

A corpse, her eyes looking right at Inmin.

He screams.

North Korea wakes up from this bizarre dream, always haunting him for the rest of his days. He feels pain on his right eye, but he knows it is just a pinch; he sits right up, immediately letting go of the covers as he marches towards the closet.

That dream is not real.

Because his parents are right here, smiling at him with their warm and beady eyes, crooked smiles he had drawn for himself, and in their clothes. Choson Inmin wipes tears in his eyes, hugging his mother and father.

"I thought I lost you."

* * *

Mongolia touches the bruised and dark skin, its features turning purple, and he scowls at it as he looks on in the mirror. He wasn't even sure whether to be surprised that he ended up - once again - underneath Ömnöd Solongos' covers, cuddling his friend while naked and at the vincity of each other. They had screamed when they woke up, of course; who wouldn't? You just drunkenly slept with your best friend and now you have a horrible hangover and sore legs.

(South Korea is the one not taking it well- he has been pacing back and forth, kicking Mongolia out of the bed and resuming to ignore him as he goes downstairs to leave him be.)

Speaking of the hangover, it was tearing him apart, tearing his insides against one another and ultimately fucking him over with a single throb in his head. He cannot even feel his legs when he first woke up, numb from the so-called pleasure last night.

(Ultimately, he didn't want to sleep with his best friend. They're just friends, they both don't like homosexuals.)

Now he needs to cover this god awful hickey that is blistering, huge on his pale neck.

 _My god, how possessive was Ömnöd Solongos last night?_ , he asks himself as he bites his lip- it was ugly and fresh and it stings him, like fire ants taking revenge for him stepping on their ant hill.

He decides to ask South Korea about his foundation; the man must have quite a lot for performances. He walks towards the edge of the stairs and shouts downstairs, hoping the walls would let Korea hear him,

"Solongos! Where do you keep your make-up?"

A clatter from the kitchen, "Just in the cabinet! Don't touch my clothes!"

Mongolia shouts back, "I won't!" and opens South Korea's cabinet, full of highly expensive clothes made of material his clothes wouldn't have, and finds the make-up set. He prays to the deities above that it would cover the whole hickey.

After absolutely ten minutes of trying every single foundation (from dark skins to lighter, not necessarily in that order), the hickey is still visible.

He looks at the mirror, utterly speechless, the hickey still present and very obvious. He hears Solongos make his way up the stairs, munching on something, and completely finds Mongolia staring at the mirror with a dozen foundation make-up.

"Damn, is it really that obvious?"

"How possessive were you last night?"

Ömnöd rolls his eyes, eyeing the mark he so grievously put upon Mongolia's fragile skin, "You just wasted most of your time applying foundation on that hideous thing when you wore a deel last night."

Mongolia blinks, absolutely dumbfounded. "Oh, right."

* * *

Philip is a  _horrible_  father- he cannot deny it.

(He blames his parents for it- for Cebu never being there and dying before he had the chance to meet her as a grown man with a purpose, and mostly towards his father whose words are as sharp as the daggers he has pulled on he, but his hands hurts all less if Philip just numbs it further.)

He'd have a civil dinner with all his sons - and when he says sons, he means  _all_  of them - and his wife, a simple and fine dine before residing into their bedrooms, stomach full, mouth empty. Philip would ask how good they are for the day, the dramas here and there, and when they speak or call him out about how he was managing his businesses he turns a blind eye on them all.

It was a fine yet cold relationship, but does he take offense to that? Absolutely not; he'd personally like a few dimes of peace and quiet around him.

(And if they don't argue with him, he doesn't argue with them either.)

He was searching through his phone casually- checking in to what those activists are saying (gross, he'd most likey block them before they say anything against his argument), have another argument about the Spratly Isles and Sabah, when he scrolls down towards a post.

He narrows his eyes.

It was a picture of the Taal Volcano, dormant for more than a hundred years, emitting smoke into the air. Philip pinches the bridge of his nose (ay, at least it was not the Mayon but he has gotten used to that volcanoes yearly eruptions), since he never thought this day would come. He looks at the description of the post; it had only erupted today, a phreatic explosion but it has a massive effect on the atmosphere in Batangas and in his neighboring cities.

Batangas is currently experiencing a thunderstorm along with the eruption, it seems, the electricity had gone out; Cavite, Muntinlupa, Las Piñas and many other cities near Batangas have declared a suspension of classes.

Philip surveys more photos of the entire scene and bites his lip; the last time the Taal had erupted was a hundred years ago (he can't remember what year, his memory is fuzzy) and it wasn't the greatest sight to behold.

(It was funny, though; the most beautiful of sceneries all have some sort of lying poison deep inside of them, intent to lure them into a trap before exploding into their faces at how their beauty came to be. He can't object though; he's cute.)

Philip decides that he has to help his son; no matter how estranged they are from each other, how awkward their interactions maybe and the simple one-sided conversations they'd have during their time alone together. It wasn't much, but at the very least Philip knows what Batangas' habits, personality and attitude was like.

(He can remember that woman he slept with... two centuries ago... who was Batangas and Tagaytay's mother before she dropped dead and he has to care for them.)

Philip knows it's a matter of pride and dignity he will lose forever, but it is better than nothing, it is better if he debunks the myth that he is a devious, cruel, manipulating  _snake_  that murders drug scum. He gathers his things and starts his car, knowing that the drive towards the erupting city is going to dirty his prized vehicle with ashes and mud, but it was to make sure his son was safe.

The ashes and clouds were worse in close-up. His remaining blue eye trail up to the sizeable cloud - not cloud - that is currently being released from the clutches of the Taal. He wonders how long this has been going for, and he needs to be quick with finding Batangas in this damn mess. The sky was a horrid yellow, then a dark cape starts to appear, and he could not help but be entranced by how the ashes are making these people's lives miserable and depriving them from their homeland.

(Then again, he does the same thing to them, albeit instead of a natural force dripping down to ruin their lives it is his global enrapture and forceful armies that awaits them, and they are not cowardly to fight back.)

He glances at the people evacuating their homes, elders hobbling with their family, children carrying their luggage. He continues to drive, paying no mind to them except for the fact that they should be wearing masks because this is an ashfall, volcanic ash are full of sulfur and will enrapture the lungs and cause their eye to sting. Some glare at him, but he pays no mind- he's used to ill willed comments and looks, nothing will hinder him as he drives towards the house where Batangas mentions one time in a conversation.

He finds the boy easily, though; encouraging people to evacuate to the nearest centers, giving them a mask or two and wearing a mask himself, all with a concerned expression on his face. Philip parks near them, takes an umbrella - he is  _not_  staining his suit - from the back, and opening the car and turning it off. He approaches Batangas calmly, phone in his pockets- his son notices him approaching, gives the mask and first-aid kits towards one of his colleagues as he watches his father walk up the steps.

"Uh, hey dad", he awkwardly waves towards Philip, who sighs as takes his hand to his own accord.

"I'm not here because I want to see you, understand?", he says in a low voice, in a verge of threat, and Batangas slowly nods, confused. He composes himself after a minute; "I'm here to help you and your citizens evacuate."

* * *

Would it technically not be love if, say, you haven’t entirely comitted to any of it?

This question has been swimming in Russia’s mind, as he walks aimlessly in the streets, not knowing what to do. He remembers China’s smile, guiding him to freedom and the taste of oblivion sweet in his tongue, his lips tingling with anticipation as he leans into China, wanting to kiss him, but instead gives him a hug.

(His mind had scolded him from not giving him a kiss but he snaps back by saying “What shall I do? Let my damned desires take control and prick the thorns surrounding the rose?” And his mind goes silent.)

He is falling to the traps his father has set out for him- the soiled meat that he had tenderly loved until the day a rift formed between them and and before his death. And he is enjoying sticking his foot into the bear trap.

He is objecting, but he is not, all at once.

Falling for his friend is not easy, especially if this man tries to make him give into he with his many a wiles and Russia only embarrassing himself with China’s friendly interactions, his touches, words and voice intimate in Russia’s mind, short-lived as he explores China even more in his dreams or in a drunken haze.

Then again, he knows it is hopeless; hopeless to fight with whoever gave him his feelings, hopeless to try get rid of it as he digs himself deeper into the hole of love.

So, this night, he drinks.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Germany suffers alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: emotional, mental, and physical abuse, child abuse, vomiting, eating disorders, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt

"Frankreich please, I swear I really didn't hear it!" Germany reasons with his wife, his soft voice with reason has turned to a hysterical and almost-wail, but instead of convincing the woman in front of him it only gives him an uncomfortable glance and a shift of position, but her gaze becomes stern and firm, making Germany squirm a little.

"Allemagne, you were the only one left here in the office", France says in her 'mature and adult' voice; Italy would always try mimick it to make Germany feel better but now he wants to throw something - preferably soft - at her to distract her and run from this confrontation. "Surely you know what happened to why the safe is open and our money just vanished into thin air?"

Germany sputters a little; he tries to think of a good excuse to try and put himself in an innocent light - like he is - and stop Frankreich from tearing him apart piece by piece.

(He remembers all the eyes on him as he and his twin sister was revealed in this large crowd of cheering Germans, cheering for Reich and complimenting his 'children' and how East will hold his hand tighter when they are regarded as his. Ost had almost spoken out of a party, to answer a woman Third Reich, that cruel man, was not their father but West arrives in no time and ushers her into her bedroom to calm her down.

He wonders how she is doing behind the wall, seeing dozens of houses and buildings runny and downed. He stares at them for a moment, before moving on.)

"What, Allemagne, have nothing to say?" He hears her snicker and he shivers, remembering the cold room in the middle of the night with a gun on his fingers and Third Reich's laughs echoing in this closed room with absolutely no lights whatsoever. "I was right, and still am; you and your father are nothing but spineless cowards, only trying to stir trouble away from you but it doesn't and it comes back to bite you in the ass. Useless."

Germany's eyes widen, but he only keeps his eyes on the floor, lips trembling, tears threatening to spill out and screaming when they're not unleashed with a torrent, polished black shoes scratching the smooth and shiny floors with the light showing his thin, pathetic self.

(He hates the way his appearance was like- how it was all thin and delicate with no skin whatsoever and he'd try to change it but in the end he gets more and more hurt.)

But he cannot deny it; Frankreich is right of him. She is right, he is useless, he is nothing but another miserable soul in earth that was put there just to be another life form that sucks the air out of earth and waste it for his own gain. It is what Reich says; a spectre of useless things being thrown to the pages of the books being burned in the town square while others revel.

When France leaves, the tears in his eyes drop like rain; in tiny, unnoticeable small drops like a drizzle, before becoming more numerous and backing sheer amount of size as it becomes a waterfall in his face.

-

West silently walks his way into the building, ignoring the thrums of people he passes and they ignore him too, an invisible spec of light to behold. He opens the door to the office, and, much contradictory to the silent spell he is creating. He sits besides Italy, who was talking to Greece and not paying the slightest bit attention to him. Then again, he has always been invisible until he speaks, and that it when everyone would yelp and remember and regard that he was, in fact, there.

He opens his documents to observe the requirements of the day, pen full of ink as he starts to scribble the daily memoirs for the day. He tunes out for a little, not listening to the dramatics of everyone, the little hand waves everyone would do every so often but he does not pay attention to the slightest bit of movement or word.

That is, until, France ruins this moment of serenity.

"Allemagne was the only person in the building when the alleged crime scene happened", France says, and West's handwriting turns ugly for a bit before going back to its default style, his hands still shaking. "So, technically, that makes him our number one suspect."

He stops writing, as he feels everyone's eyes upon him, and he looks down at the ground, hating the confrontation happening, remembering the audience's eyes on he and Ost as Reich parades them in town, looking proud and almighty.

(Reich had beckoned him to sit with he and his allies, once. Reich asks West many a question to the point he could not keep up with all of them and stumbles on his words; Reich had called him an underdeveloped child and sends him on his way, but the pang was still there.

It always is.)

"Frankreich, listen to me-"

"You can't just fabricate another alibi, West; sooner or later you're going to lie yourself into a corner and be done with it."

" _Es tut mir leid Frankreich aber_ -", he falters; he questions to why he is speaking in German, despite the fact that everyone here despises him and one time France had hit him when he spoke in his tongue. He reasons it is due to his nervousness and anxiety, his whole body shaking but he tries not to show it.

(It was a complete reverse to what went on in Reich's household.)

The beads of sweat were basically hugging his skin, making it all warmer as he fans himself with his suit, silently asking how it had grown warmer in the course of minutes.

France laughs. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue  _le crètin_?"

His heart stops; he remembers the insults that Reich had hurled in his way, remembering the hands and raising of fists and the cold and dark room in which he and that tyrant were always locked in as he tries not to spill any tears and minimise the shaking of his body, blonde hair covering his eyes.

He stands up, feeling his stomach plead to him for them to release the half-digested remains he had eaten in breakfast; scrapes of food he had found on his cupboards as he struggles. Germany throws a hard look at France, and, without waiting for her reaction to this, immediately runs out of the door, nausea in his veins.

He runs, his feet still light and nimble on the floors, making small squeaking sounds but wad not loud enough to alert anyone of a nearby person. He had practiced his light feet from sneaking out to meet Ost in her room, to taking food from Reich's plates and then for just not frightening or making anyone aware of his presence at all. His mouth was burning, bile covering his tongue like the millions of souls that Reich had murdered reaching out to him in his dreams.

(He had dreamt of them many times in the past, their screams of fury and horror, their protests and screams to make him confess that it was his fault, oh his fault. It is his fault that he had caused their deaths, and he tries to fight back and say he cannot do anything but they let out horrible and gruesome noises until he is on the floor, sobbing, covering his ears and confessing that yes, yes, he murdered them all.)

Germany opens the door to the bathroom, immediately running to the first stall - almost tripping - and hunches his back over the toilets, making retching sounds as his throat burns, bile creeping up his throat and seeing the remains of his breakfast in the toilet makes him vomit even more. He sobs a little, trying to compose himself, shaking even more after he unleashed a torrent of his remains. He shakes, as he stands, wiping the edges of his mouth with the back of his wrist, before looking at himself in the mirror.

He makes notes of his now messy blonde hair, sad green eyes showing how much he had cried this day, the messed up suit. Germany exits the bathroom, looking at the direction of the office where he had ran off to and the exit. He turns on his heel.

He has no motivation to go back to the meeting.

-

Germany desires for a drink, but he abstains from that thought; he cannot return to a meeting by simply being drunk, no, he would make an ass of himself even more, and will be the subject of ill-willed jokes for months. He would pass bars that offer the best of beers, but he shakes his head from that thought- he had also realised that he left his wallet in the coat rack at the front of the building, and he swears silently at the loss of it.

(At least he won't go wasting his fortune on little drinks, that is a plus.)

He finds a park bench he can sit in, looking absolutely miserable, not minding the others' staring and the looks they give of him, of him displaying the vibe of an employee who was fired from his job.

Germany would usually stare off into space if he cannot get the slightest bit of the revelries of being drunk- the way his eyes will dilate, his mind bring him into a different world just as bad as this one, and his limbs going slack as if he had fallen asleep in all of this. The voices in his mind would make him imagine gruesome thoughts, and he lets them control him like a puppet with strings, since that is what he is, right? Nothing more, nothing less. At least he would not deal with the consequences of a hangover in the morning, head pounding and stumbling as he makes his way downstairs and visit the pharmacy store to buy painkillers.

The guilt inside of him is easy to be played with, and he lets everyone take advantage to the softest of pleas to the most direct of them all.

He does not fight back as he gives them what he wants.

He stands from the bench, feeling himself drained from thinking of these thoughts. He throws a glance to the people at the park; elderly men and women feeding the ducks, young couples having their first dates in underneath the trees while the children are playing and their parents are setting up the picnic table in a relaxed manner.

Sometimes Germany wishes he can be as relaxed as them; not these contorted limbs that had always been aching and hurting and making him want to cut them off one by one until he is limbless.

Feeling utterly sick to his stomach, he leaves the park to go look for a way to calm himself down of the insult.

He breaths in- t'was just an insult; he has no right to get angry or sad or offended by it.

It just brings back some horrible memories.

But horrible memories are meant to be sidelined to make way for happier and joyous memories.

(It is bold enough to assume he even has one.)

And horrible memories shouldn't be brought up on the dinner table; that's just going to make everyone hate you more instead of pitying your sorry face.

So he keeps them bottled up; only using them as a leverage to get some exquisite excuses from his mind and sometimes his line of work, whenever it gets stressful for him to even function.

(He'd have days like these- days where he is plagued by the ultimate failure and outcome of his mind that he cannot even begin to process the fact that he has a life other than being sad and lonely and being mad for the fact that his father up and abandon them to snap and become the most evil man he has ever witnessed.)

West kicks a rather empty can back to where it had come from, an abandoned and moldy alley with no light coming from there. He stares at it for a little; how he had unknowingly kicked a priced vase from its foundation and how Reich had heard that shatter and immediately fumed once he sees West's frail figure trying to pick up the broken pieces of the vase but ends up cutting himself, pricking his fingers and drawing in an amount of blood. He had remembered the insults and words thrown onto his face as he tries not to cry, but he does and Reich even grows more furious, his hand raised to hit him.

But it never did, instead he was laughing and making fun of the way West's body quivers in fear and tells him he's only joking; no need to overreact.

But West knows that he will never hesitate to hit him even in his most simplest of mistakes.

He now desires for a smoke, but he has neither the cigarettes nor lighter to even light one- he swears once again, now really regretting not bringing his wallet with him. He wants to get blackout drunk by now.

He passes by a fine-dining restaurant, with everyone seeming like they are having a good time with their friends and family, and he pauses his feet, looking through the glass like it is an ideal dream- unreachable, yet it can exist if he can just try. He remembers his father, feeding he and Ost with the scrapes of food he finds in the streets, and he feels content with even the single particle enter his stomach. Then it is replaced by a memory of Reich giving him only a meal a day; if West ever dared step out of his boundaries he will never be given a meal that day and will be left to starve.

(West had objected to this the first few times, of course.

"Papa would let me eat despite the fact I broke a frame!", he had said in front of Reich, who was smoking a cigar, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

"The only frame you'd be breaking is yours- except for the fact, it is already broken." Reich laughs at his joke as West's eyes immediately go downward.)

He jolts at the sudden memory in his mind - stop giving him painful memories you useless sack of membrane - stepping backwards and landing onto somebody's arms, and he looks up to find a concerned man and woman - perhaps husband and wife - looking down at him.

"Are you alright, young man?", the man holding him asks, and West steels himself and gets up from where he was being aided from; he did not need to be babied, that perspective of his life had come to a close once his father had turned.

(Germany must confess, but he wanted to be held, nurtured, cared for and loved in someone's arms once again, back to the times someone actually loved him before two people had the complete and utter gall to take them away and place him in a different surrounding where his sister hates him and everyone is against him.)

"I'm fine", Germany replies to the man, stepping back a little, "just a little... dazed."

"It's just... you've been walking 'round the place with quite a solemn look, like something has been on your mind."

Germany shakes his head and smiles, knowing full well it is plastic. "Really, I am fine- I just have a lot of things in my mind right now."

The man nods, "All right, off we go then. I do hope that you sort out whatever issues you are dealing with right now." With that, the couple walks off; leaving Germany in his thoughts once again and completely solemn.

He wonders if there are any vacant high-scaled buildings he can break in in the middle of the night.

-

Germany wakes up screaming after a nightmare. He gets up from the bed, unconsciously throwing his nightly glass of water to the walls, its shattered wails of glass desecrating his night - or day, he has lost time really - and screams even more when he remembers the horrible sounds of shattered glass to the screams of his people running rampant to Ost telling him they both need to jump out the window to escape the wrath of the enemies. West throws his sheets upon himself, utterly shaking from head-to-toe, trying to make himself relax, all his joints swollen and throat in pain after the high screams from his nightmare.

(He doesn't remember his dream; all he knows was that at first everything was white and then it faded to a crimson red of the blood his alleged victims had owned and the blue-stains signifying his tears.)

West gets up from his bed and unwraps himself from his blankets, looking around cautiously like the ghost of the past has been left behind to haunt him forever. Yet the ghost of the past is him; he is a living memory of what Reich had done, and he will be the one to blame for the next century or so.

(Sometimes he'd jump back from a reflection of him- scared at how he looks so much like his father to the point it is rather jarring.)

West was not fond of handling steak or kitchen knives at three in the morning, with his skin full of thin lines are tingling underneath his long sleeves, thirsting for the sharp metal to bury deep into his skin but he denies them with all his might despite the fact he eyes it- eyes the way it shines underneath the kitchen's ceiling light, calling him, tempting him to come have a taste of what the knife can do.

He sighs a little before ultimately giving up at making himself a snack at three, knowing full well he could not trust himself with a knife. Or any sharp object in general.

He decides not to eat anything at all, remembering the way he vomited out contents of his stomach at a single mention of the awful and horrible things Reich had done. Of course, has not eaten anything since yesterday, preferring having an empty stomach retching over the toilet trying to spill its contents into the bowl than a full one- his appetite would immediately become lost.

So Germany blankly opens the television and spends the rest of his free time before going back to his work place of pure torture. Not like he'd find a good movie or show to watch; he sincerely thinks that real life was much more entertaining than a measly motion picture with scripted words and actions and romance to top it all off.

(The way he sees it, he feels as if the romance of all the complicated movies and series he has seen are rushed; a handsome, dashing man and a damsel in distress falling in love, kissing passionately at the very end to show all that they are a couple, they are together, and everyone will be happy of their love. All the while, Germany would clench at his fists hard and crush the utter soul of what he is holding.

He had love. He had love a long time ago, before it came crashing down like tidal waves pinning him down to the deep blue sea and forever rendering him without his sister and father to guide him endlessly.)

He lets himself melt into the suffocating couch, sighing a little from how soft it feels on his back, contradictory to the fact that he can still feel the bruises Reich had caused on it, still throbbing with pain every time he presses them onto a hard surface. (Which is why his chairs on every meeting is stacked with pillows; he knows he cannot have his back mangled from both work and a painful past.)

He then stiffens when he hears a gunshot- then it starts to multiply a lot in his ears, amplifying it to the sounds of many a soldier screaming and ordering in German, then a shot towards he himself, a scared and trembling boy who tries his damnedest to lift the heavy armed weapon on his arms as he, with quivering feet, try catching up with the older men who were completely ignoring him to save their own asses.

" _Bitte... lass mich alles vergessen_." He silently prays to no one in particular; he has never had believed in a single faith after his childhood came crashing down to reveal the outside world in the most sickening and twisting of ways, twisting his mind until he cannot make up what is real and what is not anymore. " _Bitte_...  _bitte_..."

His nerves start to rack as all of his senses were now on fire, trying to claw their way into his skull and he grits his teeth, opening and then closing his eyes again when he sees that everything around him is as dark as the death of the night, no stars nor light was there to guide him. He tries to stand, but his legs had turned as soft as jelly, and he stumbles with a hard thud- but it doesn't hurt him, only giving him a slight amplifying when his heart starts to beat, faster and racing like they were trying to catch up with his nerves settling into him. He tries to feel his hands, but they were numb, like they were settled deep into a blockade of ice where they stayed for an hour or two before completely being submerged frozen. His chest was heaving, pounding outwards like there was a beast inside him waiting to be let out so they can murder him. He can feel the wetness of his cheeks, though, and opens his mouth to let out a muffled sob but  _nothing_  comes out (if something  _did_  come out he'd choke it back down).

He tries to calm himself down - which was now a daily occurrence - because he knows no one will acknowledge him, no one will care that he's having panic attacks in three in the morning and trying to control himself from taking the knife and giving himself a variety of cuts and bruises along his skin.

No one will care.

And that's a fact he has to live with.

-

"You have the nerve to show your  _face_  here again?" Germany's green eyes slither towards the towering figure that was Frankreich, always high and mighty, always proud, and always antagonizing him no matter what he has to do. His eyes go back to the documents he was writing.

"I work here, Frankreich", he says softly but can still be heard by everyone in the room, "please leave me be."

He hears the woman laugh, her laugh just as warm and thick with honey as her voice. "Ah, so the  _la mauviette_  learns how to talk back to his higher-ups, hm?"

He ignores her, despite the fact he knows she doesn't have an inclination towards being ignored, loving the attention, loving the spotlight that may sometimes be meant to others.

(One time he sees Italy and France arguing about something he cannot hear, except for the fact that France was complaining about how she 'didn't have enough screen time' and Italy looking genuinely apologetic.)

" _Rèponds-moi_ \- I do not want to be ignored."

The sounds of scribbling paper fills the room, the entire office becoming eerily quiet for Germany's taste, and he wonders if France did have a specific touch on the building to let everyone know that drama was happening.

" _RÈPONDS-MOI, SALE ALLEMAND_!" Her shriek, which is an octave higher than her voice, makes West's handwriting sloppier as he jumps from his seat with his hair a mess from the jolt. His shaken eyes turn back to France, jaw locked, eyes murderous and bloodshot, her fingers on his desk.

(No, this did not bring him bad memories of Reich, absolutely not.)

"Ah, so I can get your attention from shouting", France says, a tiny smirk dancing across her face, a malicious intent in her eyes. "What? Scared I'll come to your room and murder you in cold blood?"

 _I am not afraid of murder_ , Germany wants to say but bites his tongue, knowing he'd provoke France even further than he did before.

"You  _are_ ", she says with a small chuckle as she retracts her fingers from his table slowly, like she was going to raise it and scratch his face with her nails. "I think I know what else will frighten you."

She raises her hand, clenched to a fist, and Germany gasps; all of a sudden the warm air around the room has been shattered, replaced by the familiar chill he has always felt whenever he was around, whenever his shadow lurks in the darkness, watching, eyeing him and whenever he shows up in his delusions that are called dreams in his slumber. And he remembers those tainted red eyes of madness, showing no remorse as he strikes East after she had misbehaved his order, and then him, cowering in fear underneath the staircases but he receives a blow, horrible and it repeats and repeats, the blows becoming more and more painful as pain blossoms into his body while he apologizes, knowing full well Reich would never listen.

" _ES TUT MIR LEID_!" He did not know when he had stumbled into the ground, out of his chair, into the cold and hard floors, sweating, chest heaving and breath quickening, seeing the shadow of the ruthless dictator he had come to despise all his life, and not France. " _Vergib mir! Bitte_! Hit me but not her!" He starts to choke and sob, a river of tears running down his cheeks, gritting his teeth.

(Was he aware that he was foolishly breaking his own walls in front of people who dislike him? Perhaps, or he is hallucinating he was in his room once again talking to a shadow of that man.)

He screams when he feels someone's hand on his shoulder, and scrambles back like a rat against all human touches and wanting to get away from them. "GET AWAY!  _DU BIST NICHT VATER! Ich will meinen Vater! WO IST ER_!" His eyes sesrch frantically at the sea of faces, trying to decipher who was the kind and caring father that had raised him over the years with his kind smile and lively attitude, and breaks down into sobs, crawling into a fetal position when he cannot find him.

(France hears Allemagne repeat Weimar and Ost's names, crying his heart out as he puts his face into his hands, his fingers digging into his skin. All the while, she did not know what had triggered this, and she looks at her fist with a confused look.)

The whole room is now full of nerve-racking sobs, when the man in front of them reverts back to a young boy that wants his family back.

-

Austria hears impatient knocks on his door, and he sighs, sitting up from where he was sitting and pinching the bridge of his nose, silently deciding whether to abandon his music composition briefly or answer the door. He decides to come downstairs, in his bathrobe and hurries down towards the door, where in which the troublesome knocks were resonating.

" _Darf ich Ihnen helfen_?", he asks calmly, until he fully registers who was at his doorstep-

France looks at him awkwardly, feet shifting from left to right and hands on her back. " _Puis-je te demander quelque chose_?"

France takes a sip of her cup of tea which Austria had brewed, placing it on the tray on the small coffee table as she puts her hands on her lap daintily.

(Austria knows that her dainty and fragile features mask the she-wolf of a woman that she is; that her innocent looks and pure smiles can mean something else and everyone who has fallen under her spell has suffered a terrible fate, a poisonous apple.)

" _Third Reich_ ", Austria spits his name out of his mouth, like a forbidden curse. "You are aware of the fact Weimar turned into him, correct?"

France rolls her eyes, "Of course I know. I wasn't born yesterday you know."

"Well, you see, the twins are quite attached to their father; something you can never relate to." He flicks his finger, a tiny snap as his eyes carefully flickers to a portrait of Liechtenstein. "When they realized their father was replaced by a terrible and god-awful man, oh, were they devastated."

"Well, from the way Allemagne was crying of his father today I can see it." France mentally slaps herself after she lets the remark slip out of her mouth, and now Austria was glaring at her, holding his cup of tea.

He sighs, "Well, I cannot critique you; I made no help to both of them, with the delusion of still being in power." He sighs a little, guilt lingering in his voice as he fixes his glasses. "Why do you need  _my_  help again?"

France's leg starts to bounce, " _Because_ , Austria, I want to know why Allemagne overreacted to me almost hitting him yesterday."

Austria's eyes give off another slight irritation, as if not wanting to talk about how everything all went wrong yesterday.

(He was, of course, there, obviously- he had just gotten back from the coffee room only to see West on the floors with everyone standing like a deer in the headlights and France nowhere to be seen. He and Schweiz had to soothe Germany out of his fetal position and support him while walking. The nerve-wracking sobs remind Austria of Confederation and he was close to sobbing as well.)

"If you were such a 'smart' woman as you put it", Austria puts finger quotations on the word 'smart', much to France's dismay, "then you would know how much harshness Reich treated those twins of Weimar."

France leans uncomfortably into her chair, looking at the steam rising from her cup of tea like it was a phantom offering her something else in the cup, a woman giving her a thousand knowledge in one life time. She sighs, "Look, I know me and the others were at fault for his demise-"

"It's not entirely your fault too", Austria cuts in, "it is partially also Weimar's for accepting the ghost in his head telling him of promises so he can take what was his."

"Alright, back to the topic", France swivels, "I've noticed something peculiar about Germany. About the way he's always really silent that when he speaks everyone just jumps because they're unaware he was in the same room as them; the way he jumps when someone makes a loud noise; the way he asks people if this seat or place is taken despite the fact that he actually is seated there; and just yesterday, when I tried to hit him he just spent half an hour on the floors, grovelling, until you helped him up."

Austria thinks for a moment, lips pursed as if contemplating how this situation had gone to a topsy-turvy. "Have you ever considered that this net behavior of West can stem from years of hurt and pain?"

France blinks, "I thought he was just anxious and shy-"

"You thought  _wrong_ , Frankreich", Austria says, glowering a little. "You'll always assume even the most basic of things. I've seen West being hit and belittled by Reich, while that disgusting man had enjoyed his pain and misery." His face shows more regret once again. "But what do I know? I turned a blind eye on them all. The next thing I knew Reich was dead in his office, West is in the Allies' custody, and East is now with the Soviet Union."

France sighs a little, "Listen, I've done something horrible to Allemagne, that I can tell; and I want to... help him."

Austria scoffs, gripping the handle of his cup hard. " _Help_? I think you've done your part on helping the poor boy. You think hitting him will make you feel satisfied at the fact you made a boy grovel at your feet? That is not helping; you are doing the same thing Reich did."

"And what  _did_  Reich do?"

The man in front of her chuckles, like he has seen a hilarious move right in front of him. "Isn't it obvious? He hits, starves, and misuses the twins to the point they are broken beyond belief."

"I... I didn't know that bastard would do that to his own children!" France tries to find some evidence so she can prove herself justifiable of why she had tried to hit West in the first place. Her mind gives her a conscience instead of a reliable excuse though- she wanted to hit West to see how much his mind will topple over and break him like the fragile glass in abandoned buildings and even in her own home in which she drunkenly throws all of her glasses of wine into the walls.

Österreich glares at her with a magnitude of a thousand suns looking to strike her down. "Now you know, and now... I do not know. If you would've given the boy a chance, then he would not be scarred by days past. He would not wallow in guilt on what has become in his life and how he should make it up to every single one of you. I can only be here for him for a short while before he goes back to his home in a pitying manner, before he goed nd play with that razor blade-"

France's heart stops for a second as she jolts up from where she was sitting. "Wait... Allemagne hurts himself?"

The sadness in Austria's eyes increase as he looks back at the cup in his hands. "He does; I tried so much to get him out of those manners but he would not listen- he keeps telling me he will kill himself when the timing is right, when the sea meets the sky."

France feels more and more feelings of guilt churn inside of her; who is she to mock the German family when even she was just as terrible as they are? And she remembers the awful things she has told about West and his sister and father, even right in front of him or in earshot like she has no care for his feelings and treating him as a person even lower than she.

She stands, "Thank you for the small talk, Austria, but now I have to go."

He gives her a small wave of farewell as she closes the door behind her, cup of tea already cold.

-

The air at the roof of the building was quite cold and chilly- like the cold floors that Reich would press West upon or the even harsher winters in which he is thrown outside after pushing Reich's buttons too much so now he has to sleep in front of the door he has been kicked out of, with thin clothes and freezing to death as he tries to plead with Reich to take him home.

(He'd cry and weep as he shakes with the shattering snowflakes as the tears on his face freeze up as his body becomes frozen and he crawls into a sitting position to conceal the warmth that still resonates within him.

Reich would only open the door when he is unconscious and would take him in like the loving father figure he is, wrapping him up in blankets and hiring the best doctors to help heal him. When West came to, he would shout at Reich but he'd simply laugh and say he has saved his life from the hazardous cold of the winter season.)

He takes the burnt out cigarette that has been stuck on his mouth for long as he drops it to the ground and steps on it as he grows closer, tantalizingly closer to the edge. The wind becomes colder and stronger, screaming at him to back away unless he deserves the terrible fate he's always did and steps on the edge to see what lies beyond the top of the very building.

West's eyes scan the neighbouring buildings, full of blinkering yellow lights that show people going on about their mundane but impacting lives, at how, in introspection, these lives are not worthwhile in the history books and that only the people living their lives fully know what has happened; not even their closest relatives will know of their deepest secrets and dreams and fears, only the speck of imagination that came out of their mouth is the only knowledge their closest companions will absorb of. He looks down at the speeding cars, wondering if he falls down from this great height and be flattened by the ashphalt road, will the cars zooming in such a high or moderate speed stop when they see some large thing fall from the sky in heaven's grace? Or would they simply ignore and accidentally run over his mangled corpse?

His polished dark shoe is camouflaged with the dark sky, as he taps to create a small cadence before his untimely - but expected - death. He takes a deep breath - his last - closing his eyes and to calm his beating heart, which was protruding from his chest and wishing to escape.

 _Not to worry_ , he tells his beating heart,  _you will be free after I fall off this building_.

West takes a cautionary step outside the edge of the building, his shoe touching thin air, trying to see if it can carry him away from oblivion, away from its taste, trying hard to seduce him into the dark side, lips tainted with past lovers. He exhales, letting out all his stress, trauma, hate and sadness that has been plaguing him like a sickness in all the years after Reich had been created (his father was a fool).

So he leans- leans into the very edge, waiting for his inevitable death to sweep him into the afterlife, where he belongs.

A hand holding on his wrist stops him, and now he is frozen on the edge, like the sculptures of a fountain he has seen numerous times before. And then he is pulled back, pulled back to the bittersweet tastes of imminent death, his eyes looking back down to the ground waiting patiently for him, trying to comprehend that a body would not drop to their hard bed that easily.

Instead of fighting, he feels numb; like the only safe way to close the curtains of his life is down. He cannot feel his hands, like he had just inhaled another fresh bag of cocaine and spread it all over his systems like a fresh batch of flour had just rubbed off into him. West then feels himself coming to his senses, as he is brought back to the world of living he hated and will always hate and into warm arms that scoops him up like a swan.

"Allemagne, can you hear me?" The voice was sweet, pure but with the touch of concern in it, like she cares, oh she cares at how far West has fallen down. Her hands finds West's cheeks, warm with tears he did not know had appeared on his face during his time being saved by the light that has always hated him ever since he was born. " _S'il te plait dis quelque chose, Allemagne_."

West stares up at the night sky, stars blinking and twinkling all above him like they will shower him with gifts, gifts that will never make sense in a lifetime. His eyes search the skies, to find the constellations moving to form his sister, his dear sister that had pushed him away when they had reunified, smiling down at him just like in the old days, when spring felt warm in his hands as it devours the icy winters, touching the frozen wasteland that had become second nature. The constellations move again to form his father, his dear and loving father he had loved from the beginning to the end of his life, anger suddenly dissipating when he remembers the real reason why he became desperate, clutching at short straws before succumbing to the deepest and darkest desires of his mind, working like a needle for him to grapple at and sew his own life story.

(He reminisces about the small but comfortable apartment they had once lived; he was always never alone, he was always never sad nor angry, especially when it was with their father and Ost, so happy and so peaceful, until like a picture they were torn apart by the great grand scheme of things.)

And he sees her, burning like a supernova under the stars, the sun expanding and expanding and expanding until it wholly occupies the space where all life exists, her troubled face looking down at him with such intensity that he could not bear look at her eyes of hurt, knowing he's disappointed her, over and over again.

Frankreich's hands feel like the sun underneath his tear-covered cheeks, ultimately caressing him and then taking him by her arms, like they were the best of friends, the worst of enemies, dying in battle. " _Je suis vraiment désolé._ " There she goes again, cradling him like a small and vulnerable infant unready for the world to take them out, but he enjoys it, he enjoys her embrace, he enjoys everything about this feeling, as if he had not felt it in a long time.

So he stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Es tut mir leid Frankreich aber- i'm sorry France but
> 
> Bitte ... lass mich alles vergessen- please, let me forget everything
> 
> Rèponds-moi- answer me
> 
> Vergib me- forgive me
> 
> Du bist nicht vater- you are not my father
> 
> Ich will meinen vater, wo ist er- i want my father, where is he
> 
> Darf ich Ihnen helfen?- may i help you
> 
> puis-je te demander quelque chose- can i ask you something
> 
> S'il te plait dis quelque chose- please say something
> 
> Je suis vraiment désolé- i'm so sorry


	30. the wasted years, the wasted youth

**-460**  
“Are we there yet,  _haha_?”, a young boy asks, as he follows his mother through the terrains of the palace, bouncing up and down, while his mother puts her smooth dark hair back in place, as she hums to herself a song she sings to Japan every night to get him to sleep; it was simply entrancing and melodious to the young child as he tugs on her clothing once again to get her attention.

She simply smiles at him, her kindly eyes full of natural fire, as she bends down to pick up her son, who giggles underneath her grasp. “We’re almost there,  _watashi no musuko_.”

His mother kisses his forehead, and he giggles a little, looking at his mother with cheerful grey eyes, feeling his mother’s warmth envelop him. Japan sees bright light up ahead, and he coos at his mother, asking if they are almost there, to which she nods with full certainty, as she bends down and lets him go- now he misses his mother’s warmth, and he tugs at her clothes to signal he wants to be carried by her, but she laughs.

“You have two feet,  _shin’aina_ ”, she replies playfully, and Japan huffs petulantly. She kisses his cheek, as she takes his hand, warmth once again enveloping the both of them, and her son smiles as they make their way to the gardens.

He could see that there are two boys in the gardens, talking to each other, looking virtually the same in any other way, but the taller of the two looking experienced, his dark hair cropped short and smooth, his crimson red eyes brimming with ambition, toying with the weapon on his hilt. The shorter of the two had dark hair and purple eyes, and he was talking to the taller boy with a worried tone.

Japan could feel his mother’s grip tightening around him, sweat covering her palm, and he looks up- she was biting her lip, eyeing the two boys with a wary look on her face.

As mother and son approach the pair however, they cease talking, the gardens now once again full of peaceful quiet, as they both turn to them, eyes on Japan. The first boy’s red eyes bore into Japan’s mind, his blood running cold as his heart stops in horrid fear, his lungs pushing him to breath harder, hating the fact that his red eyes were the shade of blood; his eyes were now brimming with a mixture of ambition and hatred. The other glares at Koku as if he had done wrong, but his ice-cold glare could never match up to the blood-shot eyes of his brother.

“Teikoku, Tokyo, where is your mother?”, Japan’s mother asks, lips curling, “or was she too…  _unwell_ to visit the palace?”

Teikoku’s glare now targets Kyoto, his teeth gritting as his eyes spit fire. “We decide to visit this place to see our own father.”

Kyoto sighs a little, “He is busy today.”

Teikoku raises a brow, “He is busy with what? Spending time with his  _concubines_?”

Kyoto bites her lip; meanwhile, Japan was in awe of how glorious these men look, but their eyes are filled with hate as they stare at him, as if he was the cause of all their grievances, even if he was a youth oblivious to the matters they concern themselves with, wishing to forever keep his innocence and peace, wanting his entire life to be nothing more than butterflies and flowers.

Kyoto’s gaze hardens, “Go back to your mother, or your tutors. You have no place in the sun.”

Teikoku scoffs, a smirk playing on his lips as his gaze turns back to Japan, “You are just afraid we will taint your son. Oh well, goodbye,  _baishunpu_.”

As they leave mother and son, the elder one turning back to give Japan one last murderous glare, they bring with them the peculiar and strange feeling that he had felt from the start. He tugs on his mother’s sleeve, gaining her attention.

“Who are they, mama?”

“No need to think about them, my  _taiyō_ , their wickedness has no place in your heart.” She puts a finger to his chest and he giggles.

**+1**

Japan dreams of he and his mother, in a field of flowers, the number of butterflies swarming and fighting for the pollen of the plants, but in the end it disturbs the peace he and his mother had made for themselves, as colourful wings flutter left and right, up and down, making him a little dizzy, his entire body wishing to swat these damned insects away, no longer is he fond of how beautiful the patterns on their wings are, and he swats them away, away from him and at his mother, who was strangely not disturbed by them.

Then as he takes a look back at his mother, who was so awfully serene in the midst of a butterfly apocalypse, he drops everything in his arms in horror.

She was a corpse, sitting on the grass that is now attached to her dead skin, the warm smile always on her face dead, her eyes closed as if she was sleeping, her hair falling down in clumps as her hands are now already shredded to the bone.

He screams in horror as the butterflies direct their attention towards her body, now devouring the only kindred soul he had.

Japan immediately wakes, his heart beating in rhythm with his breaths, entire body shaking as he panics; he is enveloped in darkness, beads of sweat dripping down from his face and into wherever they dropped into, his grey eyes finding a source of light that would calm him from his nightmare, still seeing the corpse of his mother in his eyelids.

He questions why he was not in his comfortable bedroom, his head pounding and his heartbeat accelerating, his throat sore as if he had screamed a thousand screams in his own mouth, his long dark hair wet, perhaps from his sweat. The only thing he could feel was the hardness of this damned bed, gnawing at him with their texture of hate, wishing for him to suffer the same fate as them, stuck in the darkness, as evil looms inside this room, no company whatsoever.

Then he smells the blood on his clothes, fresh and sweet, and his fingers mangled, feeling his fingernails scrape stone.

And then he remembers everything.

**-2**

Japan cosies himself more into his mother’s lap, as she silently fixes his hair, strangely distracted as if her son is not the only thing in her mind, as if her mind has jumbled up too much of her reality and she is now about to pay the price for her salvation. She was not even humming any types of song, as if she had never sang in front of her child in the first place and that she had lost her voice all from worry of the unknown.

“Why do you look so scared,  _haha_?”, he asks Kyoto, who perks up from the rather odd interruption, finally noticing there is youthful life in her room.

Kyoto smiles down at her child, her smile comparable to the cherry blossoms at bloom, but more majestic and entrancing, her lips the soft petals that flow in the wind, as he watches them with his mother in amazement.

“I’m not scared, I’m simply worried, my dear”, she replies with a small sigh, tickling the child underneath her arms as he babbles and giggles out loud. “Worried that your father’s reign will come to an end, and leave you as his heir.”

Japan blinks up at Kyoto, grey eyes full of confusion. “But mama, why don’t you want me to be heir? It is my birthright after all.”

She only gives him a sad smile, “You will be too young to rule if your father’s reign would end so abruptly. I cannot help you and only your father’s ministers will help you. Especially those two young men…”

Japan nods; he does not understand his mother’s constant worry for him, as he wants to be emperor of the country now and forever, but he knows his mother was simply worried for him. She goes back to minding her own business, disregarding the fact that her son exists, so he decides to comfort his mother, wishing to bring her out of her wit’s end.

“ _Haha_?”, he gains his mother’s attention once again, as she looks back at him with questions in her eyes, but it did not succeed in taking her spirit away.

“Yes,  _aisare shi-sha_?”, she asks, her voice covered with sweetness.

“ _Watashi no tame ni utaemasu ka_ ”, he asks from her mother, who smiles and kisses his forehead, obeying her son.

“ _Mochiron_ ,  _watashi no musuko_ ”, she replies, as she clears her throat, handling Japan tightly as if he was a newborn baby, opening her mouth to unleash the most beautiful voice he has heard a thousand times in life.

Her voice was brilliant; as if she was performing in all those theatres he had seen for himself, none talking of her marvellous talent except for him and only him, as she starts to sing a song he has heard one thousand and one times, getting tired of the lullaby but never getting tired of the singer.

“ _Nennen korori yo_ ,  _Okorori yo_.  
 _Bōya wa yoi ko da_ ,  _Nenne shina_.

 _Bōya no omori wa_ ,  _Doko e itta_?  
 _Ano yama koete_ ,  _Sato e itta_.

 _Sato no miyage ni_ ,  _Nani morotta_?  
 _Denden taiko ni_ ,  _Shō no fue_.”

Japan, never really one for staying late, yawns as he hears his mother’s voice, always there to make him feel better, always there to comfort him in his times of need, as if her voice was his path finder in life, and without it he will suffocate at the hands of evil, its claws digging into his neck. His mother must have sensed his exhaustion, as she softly chuckles and kisses him on the forehead.

“ _Yukkuri o yasumi_ , little one.”

(Japan only realised now that this was the last time he gets to hear her sing.)

**+100**

Everything has become routine for him; him scratching on the walls, desperately in search of an exit before giving up as he gasps in pain, one of his nails clipped off by the impenetrable stone walls, lounging on his make-shift bed, staring boredly into the darkness, wishing for something  _worthwhile_ to happen, wishing to entertain himself rather than sleeping since the only thing he sees is his mother who is dead-

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, softly humming a song his mother used to sing to him when he was but an innocent, naive small boy (he still was; though he could not say life was kind to him now), who has unfortunately been taught that life has its uphills and downhills, that life would spit acid on your face and call it a day in the hardest way possible.

He tries counting the days with his own fingers scraping into the mouldy and dirty stone walls, his only friend the darkness.

His ears then hear the sound of metal clinking, knowing the guards are once again back with his food, knowing this is his one chance in escaping this inferno he had created all by himself.

“Well well well, if it isn’t my  _dearest_ brother.” Japan’s ears perk up, knowing that disgusting voice all too well, the voice full of too much pleasure and madness, as if he was possessed by a demon that still controls every action and reaction of his. He finds himself face to face with those crimson red eyes swirling with madness and ambition, as if he never fulfilled his dreams despite the fact he had taken his father’s throne.

And Japan’s  _right_ to it as well.

His younger brother did not have the heart to reply, his days being accompanied by darkness not treating him well, the small foods and morsels he had scraped by cannot sustain his hunger, nor do the bowls of water could sustain his parched self. So all he could do is stare up at Teikoku with his dead grey eyes, knowing that his brother’s eyes still instill fear inside him, continuing to gnaw in his insides until he drops dead from fright.

After gaining the courage and energy to do so, softly, he asks, “What are you doing here?”

The sly grin on Teikoku’s face grows wider. “To see if you are still alive; I am quite surprised you managed a hundred days living and rotting in this cell.”

Japan does not speak, too exhausted from his question a while ago, his head hung low, eyes on the stone floors, which are being lit by the light from the ajar metal door.

“Well, since I see you are still - disappointedly - alive, I will leave you now.” Without giving his younger brother a second glance, he stalks out of the cell, and closes the door, once again leaving Japan being embraced by the darkness.

**-453**

Japan once again encounters the strange brothers that he had seen in the palace gardens a few days ago, talking to each other as if they were in the privacy of their house.

“Father has grown weak, Tokyo”, says Teikoku, his posture straight, his eyes pinning down on his younger brother, who was trying not to be afraid of him. “It is time for a new administration to rise and topple the old one to the ground. The shogunate  _must_ fall.”

“You mustn't say such dastardly things in public!”, Tokyo berates his brother, his voice soft with fright and the fear people were listening to their conversation. “We will be deemed as traitors!”

Teikoku scoffs, and Japan could tell this man has confidence and pride mixing to one, which will be his downfall in the near future. “Let them hear us; after all, what evidence do they have against us when they face Father’s court? None. None at all.”

“Even if the shogunate does fall, we will not be the one to inherit it.” Tokyo’s face sours with recall. “It will be that little  _kaibutsu_ taking what is rightfully ours.”

Teikoku laughs, wicked and evil, “He would not stand a chance against us. We have expertise on combat and swords and knowledge, while he cannot read most words.”

The two brothers laugh at the elder’s joke, all the while making Japan lose confidence in himself, as if the words of these two bullies could change the duality of time, as if they can actually and directly change the way things run in this country, nothing more and nothing less. He takes a small deep sigh, his entire cheery and jovial mood crushed by fear and paranoia, the brothers’ treats feeling real, their determination to get to their dreams so frightening to his childish brain, still clinging onto the hope that he shall succeed his father, the greatest of all shoguns.

(He meets with his mother, who was worried sick of where he had wandered off to, and his mood lightens as he snuggles warmly with his mother.)

**+1,023**

He paces around his cell, head hung low to the floors he could never see in the darkness, his grey eyes seeing and noting nothing but shades of black, black,  _black_. As if he was underground, in a location that will never be known to men. He paces back and forth, back and forth with no end, as if his entire life has now been reduced to atoms with the absence of light, his feet mindlessly brushing on stone after stone, his head not lost in thoughts nor memory, but lost in  _nothing_.

There was nothing in his mind, no thoughts that can save himself from the slowly growing insanity inside of him, waiting to pounce and cackle as it does; no memories come up, and if some do come up they are tainted by the human mind’s need of imagining everything was still fine, nothing was wrong, that he was not trapped in this cell for god knows how long.

Truth be told, the man pacing his cell did not even remember his name, or why he was here, and what did he do to belong in such a solemn place, no hope of escaping and no hope of seeing light come across this tight-locked cell.

Just like his mind, his world had gone dark, not knowing where he was, not knowing if he still had a will to live.

Then he stops pacing, his grey eyes blinking with light that he had never had after being put here in this jail from so long ago, his mind finally turning on his gears, suddenly yet briefly. He considers it for a moment, before his eyes turn up dead, as if a flashlight had turned off.

He goes back to pacing maddeningly in his cell.

**-234**

“ _Haha_!”, Japan exclaims as he runs towards his mother’s throne, throwing himself upon her with such force, almost knocking her off balance.

His mother laughs, comforting him, “My, you have gotten big. Tell me, have you been eating lots?”

Japan smiles as he nods enthusiastically, “Yes mama! The foods the cooks made were delicious!”

She kisses her son’s cheek, eliciting a giggle from him. “I am so proud, Japan! Make sure you eat lots to grow faster!”

“Or you will grow fat”, grumbles his father, who was staring at his wife and heir with the most critical grey eyes, his glare striking fear inside of his son. “And you will be immobilized from wars and battles that you must participate in for glory.”

His wife scowls back at him, cradling her son like a small child. “Do not kill our joy, Tokugawa.”

He scoffs, leaning back on his throne, “My only son with my dear wife is a weakling.”

Japan feels a pang of hurt in his chest, as his eyes widen, brimming with tears, while his mother’s eyes flare with anger. She softly lets Japan go from her arms, as her son goes back to staring at his father, wanting to know he has hurt him in the worst possible way, but his eyes are now pinned on his wife, who stands defiantly from her throne, glaring at the shogun.

“He is  _not_ a weakling!”, her mother flares, “he is a child who has not been educated yet! If we are talking about weaklings here, it is  _you_!”

Tokugawa abruptly stands up, his shadow looming on both Kyoto and her cowering son, gritting his teeth, his fists clenched, his grey eyes erupting with anger and hatred for his wife, but instead of striking her right then and there, he grabs her wrist, much to her shock and surprise, as he leads her away from the throne room, leaving a worried Japan.

“ _Haha_!”, he exclaims, and his mother turns around to give him a small but grief-stricken smile.

“ _Shinpaishinaide_ ,  _watashi no ko_ ”, she replies with a comforting voice, drowning out his fear, “ _Watashi wa tsuyoidesu_.” She vanishes with her husband, never to be seen that afternoon.

(She returns in the evening with a bruised eye, unable to walk as if her legs were unstable. Japan worriedly asks her if she was all right, and she smiles, replying that she is fine.)

**+2,304**

How does age work?

Does the body increase in age as if it was moving forwards through time, a vessel for experimentation, as they carry a living conscience inside of them as a journey through time?

He had been stuck in this cell for… apparently he lost count, but that hardly even matters anymore, since he cannot move properly in this damned cramped cell, legs wishing to stretch in the widest of rooms, arms wishing to reach up the highest ceilings, wanting nothing but a cell full of more room, as if the cells are purposefully closing in on him, as he can smell its mouldy stone walls and musty old floors.

Every time he wakes up from a dreamless, thoughtless, and memoryless sleep, he is greeted with the fact that he is now going to spend his entire life in a cell that cannot sustain his needs, being greeted with nothing but darkness as his way of life, the remaining air in his cell making him suffocate.

Or; the lack of it.

It was like he forgot everything someone had taught him about the world, as if he stopped existing and was merely a space in this cramped cell, no escape and no way to tell if he lives or not, his heart in pieces, his mind blank, his memories never surfacing, as if they had grown too tired of his grievances and up and left him.

Quiet reigns supreme in his cell with no room, unable to give him air, water or food he desires, as he goes back to sitting on what used to be his make-shift bed, knowing he could never fit in it.

**-321**

Japan was minding his own business in the gardens, resolving to wait for his mother who was busy handling important matters, cooing at the butterflies that continuously feast on the flower’s nectar, their wings still enchanting their watcher, who stares at them, fascinated, with how beautiful and elegant they are.

The feast of the butterfly has been interrupted by a shrill scream echoing across the garden, making Japan flinch and the butterflies flutter away in unison.

The source of the scream was a woman who looks close to the age of his mother, hair wild and unkept, purple eyes swirling with madness as she runs towards the palace, the guards chasing after her, trying to restrain her.

She was looking around wildly, screaming to herself as she disappears into the palace, the guards still not being able to restrain her.

Japan stares at the spot where he had last seen her, a frightened and confused feeling inside of him, as if that woman was the root of all his nightmares coming to life, wanting to devour him the way the looming darkness in his dreams gobble him up.

Then he hears the voice of two familiar brothers bickering. Japan turns his eyes on the two who enter the palace, Tokyo looking at Teikoku with something akin to fear and worry, while Teikoku had an unreadable expression on his face, his emotions somewhat absent.

“You should not have scared Mother like that”, Tokyo says, his eyes searching the entire gardens. “Now she will be the laughingstock of the court…  _again_.”

Teikoku rolls his eyes, “As she should be- she goes talking about how I am a demon but in reality she fits the description.”

Tokyo gives him a look, “Be polite! You are talking about our  _Mother_!”

“Does not seem like one”, Teikoku mutters, his eyes catching Japan frolicking in the gardens, and he smirks evilly, “Mother Dearest is not a mother.”

As the two brothers disappear into the palace to search for their mother, Japan felt even more frightened of the elder.

**+2,546**

His body is empty; no brain, no soul, no voice heard, as if no one has remembered he existed, to the point even he himself starts to consider that he was no more, and that he is just a vessel, a vessel to a life that had once existed, but he’s not sure if he  _was_ alive.

So he stands in this suffocating and dark cell, depriving him of the light and air he needs to survive, but that is alright; he’s not alive anymore, he’s dead, his name smeared off of history and the fact that Teikoku took all the glory and fame he deserved.

That is the only name that stuck inside his empty mind.

Teikoku.

He cannot remember who or what he is, if he was friend or enemy or rival, but every time he thinks of his name, he feels pain, anger, anguish and desolation, as if he was the harbinger of every remaining conflicting feelings inside of his empty and dark abyss he calls his mind.

Ah yes, a name to remember, all over the years.

**-55**

Japan runs around the palace, searching every nook and cranny for his mother, even asking the servants if they had seen her. They point to his mother’s private quarters, and his eyes light up, like a pirate finding its treasure. “ _Haha_! I finally found y-”, he stops short as he sees his mother and a mysterious woman having tea in the middle of the room.

“ _Musuko_!”, says his  _haha_ , standing up, fixing her attire as she excuses herself from the pretty lady, as she makes her way to cradle her child in her arms. “Do not intervene in people’s conversations again!”

Japan gives his mother an apologetic look, “I’m sorry, mama.” His eyes shot towards the pretty lady, who was pouring tea over her tea cup. “And who is she, mama?”

“Japan!”, his mother scolds once again, “do not-”

The lady chuckles, “It’s fine, Kyoto- no need to get agitated.” She flashes a smile towards the small boy, “my name’s the United States of America, or America for short.”

There was something in that woman, whether it be the way she looks so pretty to the point it compels him to stay with the two girls who go back to their - slightly heated - conversation, the teapot between them steaming as Kyoto once again pours tea into her cup. As they were talking to each other (which was tuned out by him), Japan was busily - or just enchanted - staring at the pretty lady with a pleasant smile on her face. Her golden hair was tied into a braid, which in turn was tied into a small bun. Her skin was dotted by freckles; they look like the stars in the night sky now blessed into her skin, and her green eyes were just like the gardens; he can get lost in them any single day.

There was  _something_ in that lady that made his heartbeat increase even faster, as if he had ran a complete route from the gardens towards the town square, as if there were butterflies in his stomach that wished to escape and flutter over the entire room, lighting up the entire room.

And when she glances at him, a thunderstorm meeting a rich forest, she smiles, as if they will meet again, someday.

(They meet again in their next life, in a not-so pleasant way.)

**+28,342**

He hears the metal door in his cell open, for the first time in what felt like a millenium of waiting. Waiting for something that was never there, and if it was there, it simply vanished because worthless fucks decided to forget they have left something lying upside down, all worn out from years of torment and torture.

He doesn’t bother turning around, but the open door finally gives him a glimpse of his small and cramped cell, always covered in the darkness, and he sees a stone wall in front of him, feeling someone in front of him, hesitating to move and confront the man in the darkness.

“Hello, Japan”, the newcomer softly says, his voice familiar but nothing comes across the prisoner’s mind, lost in the darkness. But he can feel anger rising in him, the same reaction whenever he thinks of Teikoku’s name in his mind, but weaker and lackluster. “ _Anata wa seichō shimashita_.”

The chained man lifts his head, but still not facing him, his eyes up the ceiling now, full of obsolete stone. He tries to find something, anything, a voice or word to respond to this newcomer that finally made him see light again.

“That’s my name?”, he finally asks, softly and surely, his voice too quiet to even be heard in this closed cell. “‘Japan?’”

The newcomer hesitates a little, “ _Hai_ , that is your name, since birth.” His voice softens even more, to something more fatherly and regretful. “Oh Japan, I’m sorry we did that to you.”

He immediately whirls to face him, surprising the man in front of him a little as he staggers back, meeting the prisoner’s messy hair and blood-shot grey eyes wanting nothing but to murder, his lips pressed to a thin line, his body thin and gaunt, skin pale from the lack of sunlight that they supposedly need to survive. The prisoner tries long and hard to recall this pathetic man’s name, the way his lips would curl in disgust in his first few years inside that damned cell, rotting.

“ _Bastard_ ”, he hisses, letting out a shaky breath. “What are you doing here? To come laugh at me? To taunt me? To make fun of me? Spill!” His body was shaking, finally showing emotion after all these years of showing nothing but emptiness.

The man shifts uncomfortably, his eyes never leaving Japan. “I’m not here to taunt taunt nor insult you. I’m here to visit you.”

Japan’s growing anger is about to reach new heights, as he whirls around to see the last face he saw before he is locked up in this cell like a bird. He changed a lot from the years that he could not count with his fingers, with his short-cropped hair and violet eyes now withholding regret, his glasses glinting in the dim lights.

“Why now?”, he asks, softly, feeling tired and weary after shouting at the man who turned his life upside down, left and right, stopping him from an eternity of happiness. “Why did you do this to me? Did I do something wrong that made you imprison me in the darkness?”

He slowly raises his eyes, his body still shaking with such intensity that would put even the earthquakes he had witnessed to shame. “Sometimes I’d think long and hard about what happens to people who put children in jail.”

A few seconds later, he is now alone again in his cell, the darkness welcoming him back with open arms, and instead of screaming and crying and wanting to see the real sun, he welcomes Her with open arms.

**-69**

It was a stormy day, meaning he would not be able to play in the gardens today, as he stares sadly at the downpour, longingly waiting for it to go away. He is no stranger to the rain, but sometimes his mood dampens with the weather, as if it controls his emotions and feelings to the winds, as the dark grey clouds shower the entire world with drops of liquid in various shapes and sizes.

He inches away from the window as he sees a streak of lightning from a distance, shivering a little from the cold gusts of wind that keeps blowing in his direction, as if he was just a simple obstacle to be knocked off. Lightning streaks were a sign a rumble of thunder is coming, slowly but surely, and it does; like a demon trying to say he is here and he should marvel in his presence.

Japan shrieks as another flash of lightning, this time nearer to his place, sends him tumbling down from his bed, and into the floors.

He starts to cry from the sheer harshness of his fall, as if this was the most painful thing life had done to him, the pain like a hundred men falling down on him. From the midst of his crying, he hears the sliding door open and a soft gasp before two arms start cradling him softly, feeling someone’s hair touch his skin, comforting him, calming the boy down, telling him it is all right.

“Oh, Japan”, his mother coos, voice soft and rich with caring and love, something he had loved in her from the very beginning. “ _Subete ga seijōdearu_.”

**+20,129**

He grapples at his overgrown hair as if it was his enemy, tearing strands of his hair down in small clumps, falling to the ground like rain he never saw again after he was locked in this now tight and suffocating cell, as he screams. His scream was not from the fact the cell is slowly killing him with its lack of air nor the voices in his mind replacing the serene nothingness, but simply at the fact that he wants to hear himself, he wants to hear the walls echo his own voice, but all he could hear was his bones cracking to the sounds of his scream as his hands try pulling more of his hair out.

He closes his eyes in on the walls, locking him in limbo, forever and ever.

As if his fingers were claws, as if they were sharp and can tears this wall, down, his madness still building up from all these years of inglorious rage and desperation to get out of this damned cell, he turns on to the walls that had took him in as a friend and a foe, his screams becoming more and more agitated as time goes on and on and on.

He starts to create his masterpiece, fingers scraping on the hard walls that torment him every single day, the scraping of his fingers on the olden concrete singing a high-pitched and off-tune music, chanting for disarray. He howls in pain as he feels one of his fingernails break and drop to the floors, hearing its clink, but his work is not done, knowing that he is far from done, knowing he still have not left his mark, as he keeps on scraping and vandalising this damned walls for sheer entertainment, because if no one can do it he had to do this to himself; he does not care if he will break or dislocate any of his fingers, or some of his fingernails break from the intensity of his vandalism, nor does he care if his hands are mangled or bleeding.

A few hours (minutes? days? seconds?) he stops, feeling the numbing of his own pain, panting and trying to breath through, his grey eyes trying to make sure he remembered those words, remember the way they were structured, remember everything. Even from the darkness of the cell, he knew what he spelt out,

“ _Watashi wa sonzai shimasu_.”

**-192939488**

Is this the past?

Is this the present?

He can’t remember anymore.

He can only remember what’s  _After_ now.

**+21,456**

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out an annoyed sigh as the metal doors open once again, revealing Tokyo, with a bandage on his left hand. Honestly, his visits are making Japan miss the darkness and the close walls tormenting him slowly but surely. He did not  _want_ the man who partnered with Teikoku to visit him, over and over again, every week, every month, every year. Let him be at peace.

“What do you want now?”, he asks curtly, glaring up at Tokyo, who was awkwardly biting his lip.

“How much do you remember about your mother?”

Japan stiffens, his thought process stopping, his grey eyes widening, as he turns to stare at Tokyo in anger and fury. He stands, his body shaking with pure rage; before Tokyo could look back, he had cornered his half-brother inside of his own cell, knowing the two of them both won’t have any room to breathe. He grits his teeth as he digs his fingernails into Tokyo’s recent injury, and he screams out loud in pain.

Japan huffs out a laugh as he punctured injured skin, making Tokyo wish for death with his own voice. “Your pain today isn’t measurable compared to  _mine_.”

All of a sudden, he lets his older brother go, as Japan stalks back to the furthest corners of his cell, back turned from his brother, who was swearing and crying like the bastard he was, as he fumbles around to fix his bandage, an injury topped by another injury, both made by Japan himself.

He lets out a bitter laugh while Tokyo continues whining, before he starts to cry. “I wish I had saved her, you know. The only light in my life destroyed by  _you_.”

**+28,299**

Grey eyes stare into Tokyo’s brown ones, unable to conceal his bitterness and anger for both the brothers. “You both know that  _I’m_  the rightful heir.”

He does not respond, knowing he cannot explain himself to a lonely and bitter man, deprived of beautiful youth, and can only nod shakily, his eyes full of fear. Then he feels hands on his neck, slowly suffocating him, making him gasp as the fingers tighten their grip around his windpipe.

“ _Say it_ ”, Japan hisses out in the softest voice he can muster, and with surprising strength he lifts Tokyo up until his head hits the ceiling, the man writhing in the cuckold. “Say that I’m the real heir and that Teikoku is the  _fake_.”

His captive lets out a choked response, trying to answer.

“ _Say it_ ”, Japan says with more force in his voice now, the intent to murder hidden. “SAY THAT I’M THE REAL HEIR!”

“You are”, Tokyo finally chokes out, “ _you are you are you are_.”

**+28,323**

Tokyo looks back over his shoulder to find Japan still standing, in the centre, his eyes on the shadow casted by the sunlight above him. He raises a brow and tilts his head, “Japan, come on, we’re running late!  _I’m_ running late!”

His younger half-brother ignores him, his eyes still on the shadow, his grey eyes brimming with fascination- the shadow mimics his movements, as if it was a darker version of him, attached to his feet. His skin feels like it was being caressed by generous and warm hands, the sun that is said to be burning him like he was in hell a friend, giving him the warmth he never received in the cell, the open space giving him enough air to breathe.

“Japan!”, he hears his brother call out to him, and he slowly walks towards Tokyo, watching his legs move in the sunlight, the corners of his lips moving upward, trying to form a smile.

After all these years, longing and wanting to see the damned light, he can finally gaze at the sun again; he can finally be free to walk; free from the darkness. Free from his life as a vessel of the unknown. Free from being non-existent, because he finally exists.

 _Finally_.

**+28,360**

Tokyo was out for the day, meaning that Japan has the apartment all by himself. He stares at the dozen books scattered on the table, the abandoned coffee cup by the window sill, and the general lack of someone looming all over him, he decides the best way to keep him entertained is to read a few books Tokyo had left hanging around. He picks one up from the pile that was enough to fascinate him, as he sits down on a chair, his fingers studying the texture of the paper, as he flips from page after page, skimming from paragraph to paragraph.

A few hours after, he finishes the book, and now he feels bored, so he goes to Tokyo’s room, promising to himself that he will leave soon after. He knows he is invading his brother’s privacy, but he too had been invading his cell for the past few years, so might as well do it to him as payback. He opens the lights in Tokyo’s room, to find the entire place - frustratingly - messy. He groans to himself as he takes a step in, cautiously avoiding stepping on the things cluttered around the floor.

Japan stares at Tokyo’s wardrobe, before opening it and taking out a uniform that was old and dusty, knowing that he doesn’t use this anymore. Entertained at the fact he can mock Tokyo once he finally gets home, Japan starts to put the uniform on him, a childish spirit rekindled inside of him, as he slowly but surely buttons his shirt on, looking for a mirror that can let him see his entire body.

(He had only looked in a mirror now, as he sees appearances a waste of time- well, fairly because he is hidden from everyone else.)

He finds a full-length mirror near Tokyo’s study, and he rushes to it to see how he looks- and then stops abruptly, finally getting a taste of his reflection for what felt like a  _long_ time. Despite the fact he has been tearing at his hair in mad fits for what felt like forever, his dark hair was a mess, strands reaching far and wide. His grey eyes were shining with emptiness, and his frame thin but tall, skin as pale as the ice that covers the country in winter.

He recalls the times when his mother would say that he had his father’s most beautiful eyes, and how she would make him feel important by saying that; it worked, for a long, long time. And today, he realises that he would have wanted his mother’s beautiful brown eyes; they were the ones that had guided him into the world where everything was cherry blossoms falling down in his face until the tree trunks came to topple him down.

Gingerly, he touches his reflection, his body once again shaking, his mind racing with thoughts about how this was wrong, how his mother should have been alive and him dead, ceasing to exist in this world, but instead it was in reverse. His lip was quivering, as he tries remembering what his mother looked like… her red lips smiling down at him with love and warmth… her brown eyes mature but caring… her arms like a nest to nurture him with… her voice the most melodious thing he has ever heard… her dark hair smooth and silky soft.

None of which he had gotten from his mother, as he looks in the mirror.

“ _Haha_ ”, he whispers, as he drops to his knees, no longer able to support himself once again, as he now unleashes a stream of tears, dripping down his face. “I’m… sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.” A voice snaps him out of his breakdown, as he looks up in the mirror to find his mother, smiling at him, as if she were alive.

“Mama?”, he asks softly, his voice merely a whisper in this room. “B-but you’re dead!”

She chuckles a little, as she drapes her arms around Japan; he should not be feeling anything, but he felt warmth embrace him once again. “I may be dead in the real world, but I will always live in your mind.”

Japan shakes his head, still sniffling and sobbing. “You must be disappointed in me, mama.”

She shakes her head, putting her lips to his forehead, “I am not disappointed, my son. I will forever be proud of you. I will be by your side as you finally finish your quest for glory.”

Japan blinks, confused. “‘Quest for glory?’”

There was something in her dark brown eyes now; vengeance and revenge. “Kill the one who decided to rewrite our fates like this. And then, you will have peace, now and forever.”

“But Mother… killing is wrong…!”

“But Teikoku killed me, and he has killed thousands of innocent lives too. Do you think murdering the bastard will have an equal effect on what he did to the entire world? No.”

Japan’s mind goes back and forth, in circles and then forming more and more shapes, as he tries to formulate a response against this ghost (hallucination? curse?). Murder is wrong, his mind supplies, but his heart tells him it is time for Teikoku to get what he deserved, to make him beg for death and he giving it to the suffering man with no conscience whatsoever.

He smiles, turning to grin at his mother.

“Perhaps I let that old bastard live long enough.”

**+28,365**

Two brothers are caught in a dance, a dance that decides one another’s fate, as they kick and punch and shoot with all of their might and strength, giving each other sensitive vocabulary as they chase and catch. The grey-eyed brother tackles his elder brother, making him cough up blood as Teikoku kicks at Japan’s ribcage, and he howls in pain, as Teikoku uses it as a distraction and kicks Japan off of him. He topples over, as now Teikoku has the upper hand, looking down at him with anger and madness.

It scared him a long time ago, but now it doesn’t- not anymore.

“You think I will spare you once again after you did this to  _me_?!”, he bellows, “I showed you leniency once upon a dream! A chance to rot in the cells, but you decide to waste it after assaulting me.”

Japan spits on his face, and he uses that as an advantage as he kicks at Teikoku’s legs and shoots a bullet, which lodges on Teikoku’s shoulder. He gasps in pain as blood drips over his mouth once again, but before he could move Japan kicks him on the skull, the floors breaking his fall in a hard manner. Teikoku screams, both in pain and in anger, but now Japan has a firm grip on Teikoku’s injured shoulder, pulling it as hard as he can until he can hear joints cracking.

“You…  _meiwaku_ ”, Teikoku hisses and he gasps, Japan stepping on his ribcage as if it were a toy, his step becoming harder, harder,  _harder_. “You will die an inglorious death.”

Japan cackles, a sneer on his face, as his grey eyes shine throughout the light, exchanging his gun for a dagger. “I’d find pleasure ripping out your heart.” Teikoku pants, his hands discreetly reaching for a pole, closer and closer, as Japan busies himself with his knife.

“So,  _sayonara_ , Teikoku.” Japan lunges for Teikoku, eyes wide, full of undefinable insanity.

Teikoku meets his eyes, as he finally reaches the pole and plunges it deep into Japan’s heart just as he lunges. His brother halts, time standing still, but before he processes what had just happened, his grey eyes become blank with death. He breathes hard, as blood drips from Japan’s mouth and into Teikoku’s clothes, his brother staring at Teikoku, before his eyes go listless, dropping the dagger to the ground, as it makes a little noise.

There was silence in the halls for a moment, Teikoku looking everywhere other than the corpse of his older brother, as his eye colour slowly went back to its crimson red, while Teikoku’s red eyes were being replaced by grey, as if the blood had been drained from his body.

Japan crawls away from Teikoku’s corpse, as his body swiftly slides down the pole, the silver graces of the weapon tinged with blood and all things holy.

When the day has come where he have died.

Only to come alive.

**0**

It happened so fast; the guards coming into his and his mother’s home, disturbing the peace that his mother have created in their own terrain, mother and son minding their own business when all of a sudden, as if his years of life are cut short by someone shooting their gun his way, Teikoku’s guards raid their home, holding him and his mother captive, who were both so busy living, breathing, being  _alive_.

“ _Haha_!”, the young boy says, as two guards hoists his mother up, who in turn was too weak to stand, too weak to do anything except look at Japan with her deep brown eyes, wanting him to go, run away as fast as he can. But he knows that he should never leave the source of his happiness behind. Before he could move, however, two more guards hold him back, him and his mother a safe distance from each other, tormenting them. He struggles against his captors, his grey eyes threatening to wage war. “Let me and my mother  _go_!”

“You struggling against my guards is quite…  _hilarious_.” A cold, calm, and frigid voice settles among the people in the room, as Japan hears the steps of the man who has orchestrated this ambush, this sabotage.

Teikoku comes in all his glory, wearing a clean and tidy uniform, his dark hair smooth and cropped, but his eyes still full of madness and ambition, laughing silently at his younger half-brother and his mother, a big smirk on his face. He is here to laugh at them for his entertainment; here to earn pleasure from their pain as he sits on his throne of gold, superior to all, controlling each and everyone of the people’s lives.

Japan meets his eyes, pleading and scared out of his wit, wanting nothing more to escape. “Please, Teikoku… let me and my mother go.”

Teikoku’s smirk grows wider, not really a smirk anymore but a sadistic smile creeping upon his face, his eyes staring down at Japan, huge with fascination and amusement. “But you and your mother stand in the way of the glory of my empire”, he smiles once again, a glint of  _intent_ now visible, “I have to take you  _traitors_ down.”

He shouts an order to the guards, who immediately obey as they drop his mother down to the floors; she gasps in pain, and Japan writhes underneath the men’s grasp, wanting to be with his mother, wanting Teikoku to leave the both of them alone. Teikoku approaches Kyoto step by step, as the latter was recovering from the assault, before he swiftly tilts her chin up, her deep brown eyes which were full of hope, now replaced with fear.

Teikoku smiles as he points his gun at her, and Japan screams, his mother shooting him one last look-

Everything goes red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watashi no musuko- my son
> 
> Shinai’na- dear
> 
> Baishunpu- whore
> 
> Taiyō- sun
> 
> Aisare shi-sha- beloved
> 
> Watashi no tame ni utaemasu ka- can you sing for me  
> Mochiron watashi no musuko- of course, my son
> 
> Yukkuri o yasumi- sleep tight
> 
> Kaibutsu- monster
> 
> Shinpaishinaide, watashi no ko- don’t worry, my child
> 
> Watashi wa tsuyoidesu- i am strong  
> Musuko- son
> 
> Anata wa seichō shimashita- you’ve grown
> 
> Subete ga seijōdearu- everything is alright/fine
> 
> Watashi wa sonzai shimasu- I exist
> 
> The lullaby that Kyoto sung was Edo Komoriuta or Edo Lullaby


End file.
